


Footie shorts

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Borussia Dortmund, F/F, FC Barcelona, Liverpool fc - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:42:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 22,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4617027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of football drabbles off my tumblr.</p><p>RECENT:<br/>Ch 29. Neymes - Dancing<br/>Ch. 30. Skagger - Genderbent<br/>Ch. 31. Ter Stegen/Rafinha - Congratulations and gross nicknames<br/>Ch. 32. Ter Stegen/Rafinha - Sexting<br/>Ch. 33. Kunessi - retirement fic<br/>Ch. 34. Neymessi - Mumps sick!fic<br/>Ch. 36. DeleDier - Video phone</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Pierreus - Car Rides

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to crosspost some of my drabbles here for a while and now I finally have some time to spare. Pairings are in the chapter name, brief descriptions in the beginning notes. 
> 
> Enjoy! Feedback is always welcome.

Okay, so Marco is going to be the first one to admit that not getting a license and still driving around was a monumentally stupid idea. In the beginning, there just hadn’t been enough time, with so many things happening at once, and as time passed he’d just kind of hoped that it would go away. In hindsight, it hadn’t been his smartest decision, but Marco never considered himself especially smart. He was sorry, though.  
  


However, there was one good thing that came with the shame and total loss of independence; it meant that Auba had a plausible reason to drive him everywhere. The Lamborghini was a glorious car and it fit its owner perfectly; sleekly flamboyant, but unbelievably comfortable. Auba was a good driver, secure and comfortable at handling even the car’s highest speeds. It was probably due to the fact that Auba had actually had some driving lessons, but Marco wouldn’t know about that.  
  


It was nice though, to sink into the sinfully comfortable passenger seat, lean his head against the headrest and feel himself start to relax after a hard day of training. Sometimes, Marco would watch the world outside the tinted window, the people going about their day in a blur of grey with an occasional clash of color. Mostly though, he just watched Auba drive; the way his eyes were sharply following the flow of traffic, his hands settled on the steering wheel.  
  


Auba always chose the music; those were the rules. Marco didn’t even mind, even though he didn’t approve of Justin Bieber being slandered. They always ended up listening to Auba’s French rap that Marco couldn’t even pronounce, but that didn’t matter, because he got distracted by Auba’s fingers tapping along to the beat or how he sometimes started humming along without realizing it.  
  


“Why do you keep watching me?” Auba asked him a few times. “I’m a better driver than you are.”  
  


“No reason,” Marco would shrug. “Maybe I just like looking at you.”  
  


Auba didn’t blush easy and when he did, it wasn’t really noticeable, not like with Marco, who looked like a cooked lobster within seconds. But Marco had learned to notice the signs, and the way Auba bit his lips to avoid a smile threatening to break out was a reward all on its own.  
  


It was nice, taking advantage of the car’s tinted windows to dart forward and steal a kiss, safely hidden from the paparazzi waiting outside. It was easy to linger for a moment; pretend they were teenagers just back from their date and their parents were waiting watchfully on the front porch. Pretend like they weren’t two professional footballers with million dollar contracts that would be ruined if anyone saw the way Auba’s hands were playing with the short hairs on the back of Marco’s neck.  
  


Eventually, they’d have to separate, share smiles that were almost shy, as if Auba won’t sneak back in a few hours, after all the photographers had packed up and left, and as if they won’t spend the rest of the evening making dinner together and making out on the couch.  
  


Still, it didn’t feel like they got enough moments like this for themselves, quiet and fleeting, a secret brush of lips in a golden painted Lamborghini, the seatbelt clasp digging painfully into Marco’s hip where he’d stretched out to press closer.  
  


There were probably a dozen photographs of him getting out of Auba’s car, maybe even some that were clear enough to make out his mussed up hair and red cheeks, but that was fine. The world could have that, but those quiet moments were only for them.

 

 


	2. 2. Kunessi - Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this post](http://emmabarca.tumblr.com/post/102470591792/a-kunessi-story) and the fact that Kunessi doesn't seem to be able to stop touching

Training with Kun is the worst. No, actually, scratch that, training with Kun is great, because Leo can look up in a practice match and see Kun on the other side, waiting to receive his pass and when they score Masche and Zaba and Angelito and the others pile up on top of them cheering happily and it’s like one big frequently dysfunctional family. He likes training with Kun and the NT, it’s just the stretching he can’t stand.

 

Stretching with Kun is an exercise in sexual frustration, much like most things with Kun, really, because how can it not be, when Kun looks like that and never seems to stop smiling at him.

 

Leo’s face starts a low-grade blush from the moment the physio announces the pairs and doesn’t get any better when Kun beams at him and goes: “I’ll do you first!”

 

But the thing is, Leo can’t be uncomfortable with Kun, not for very long at least. It’s just the way Kun is, chatting on about one thing or the other and laughing at Leo’s attempts at humor.

 

Still, their proximity is hard to ignore and as Kun leans down to press Leo’s knee against his chest, fingers like brands on his exposed thigh, and smiling stupidly through a curtain of too-long hair, Leo feels a familiar swoop in his stomach, a stirring of interest he should most definitely not be feeling in the middle of national team training, with his aging coach looking on. But Kun’s smile is infectious and his eyes are all pupil, so Leo grins back and lets himself be touched.

 

A burst of laughter to their left causes them to spring apart (just in time probably, because Kun has been swaying progressively closer to Leo’s lips in the last few minutes), Leo’s face resembling a tomato, and Kun looking as unruffled as usual. Nobody is looking at them of course, it’s just Gabi telling Pipita jokes to break his concentration, and Leo breathes a sigh of relief.

 

Kun grins at him suggestively when the physio orders them to switch positions and Leo rolls his eyes, trying to retain his dignity through the crimson on his face. 

 

Though, he can’t quite resist copping a feel when he’s got Kun at his mercy, running his hands over Kun’s abs at the pretense of stretching and pressing his front against Kun’s back way too closely for anyone to mistake it as platonic. By the end of it, Kun is flushed and panting, and not because of the exertion.

 

When they stand up, Leo tries to subtly adjust the situation in his pants, glad that nobody seemed to notice. In that moment, Masche sees them and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling so Leo isn’t too worried. Besides, he’s seen the way Masche looks at Angelito when he thinks no one is watching. He’s not gonna be one to judge.

 

He and Kun turn serious when the Mister calls them all over for instructions. Football always comes first, even though he wouldn’t have minded pulling Kun into the nearest supply closet. He settles for resting his hand low on Kun’s spine as they listen and smiles when he feels him lean into the touch.

 

Okay, so he’ll admit that training with Kun is pretty nice either way.


	3. 3. Pierreus - Kid!fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco, Auba and their little girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written before we knew Kloppo was leaving. Or Mitch.

Auba finds their daughter while doing some charity work with an orphanage and she’s adorable and curly-haired and so small. He sees her playing alone with her toys and walks over to play with her, and he’s still there when Marco comes to pick him up. He sees his boyfriend playing dolls with this tiny baby girl, who’s watching him with adoring eyes and he knows immediately. Auba looks up when he softly calls his name and his eyes are so full of love, and he doesn’t even have to ask if they can keep her. Marco’s never been good at saying no to him anyway.

 

The papers are full of the news, two BVB club legends, adopting a child together, who’s ever heard of such a thing? But the club does an admirable job of shielding them from it and Kloppo destroys a few journalists when they try to ask invasive questions and all is well. They pass all their tests and get to take their baby home.

 

They get good at getting up early, bye bye party lifestyle. Marco does her hair in the morning, learns how to do braids and twists from Auba’s mother to tame his daughter beautiful dark curls. Auba chooses her clothes every morning, bright dresses and warm jackets and leggings and always a BVB scarf in the winter, because Dortmund gets cold!

 

She grows up speaking three languages, German and French and English, and Uncle Neven teaches her how to curse in Serbian when she’s a teenager, because ‘it’s just so much more effective that way.’ Uncle Mats always brings her books and teaches how to tackle someone bigger than her. Uncle Kevin takes her out to the park and they track mud everywhere when they get back. Uncle Mitch gives the best piggy-back rides because he’s the tallest. Grandpa Kloppo doesn’t like being called Grandpa, but he fills the role admirably enough, plying her with sweets until Marco absolutely forbids it.

 

Marco’s the disciplinarian, who makes sure all the homework is done and that curfew is enforced and “no, you’re not allowed to stay up to watch the Champions league final, what is your papa thinking?” “But daaad!” “But Marco!” “Yeah, okay, fine. But bed right after. You too, Auba.”

 

But he’s also the one she runs to when she’s unsure about something. Auba is the one who spoils her rotten and Marco gives him so much shit for it. He’s the one she comes to when she’s hurt, the one she shares secrets with, even when she gets bigger.

 

She grows up into this beautiful, confident woman, a combination of their best traits and then some, brilliant with a football and smarter then both of them put together. Maybe she grows up to be a football player, the dream too hard to resist, or maybe she’s a doctor or a writer or a scientist. She patiently spells out her name to anyone who asks.

 

“Aubameyang, like the footballer. Reus, also like the footballer.”

 


	4. 4. Victor Valdes/Andres Iniesta - ace!Victor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andres and Victor, growing up the La Masia way, dealing with problems like teenagers

 

Victor comes to La Masia really young, and at first things are fine, he’s a little homesick, but he can take it, he’s a big boy now, like mama said. But he’s growing up in a huge group of boys and after a while they develop urges and he…doesn’t.

 

Someone brings a magazine one day and they all crowd around it, eager and curious, and he does too, but looking at the ladies in them, in transparent underwear or even without, he just thinks they look pretty, like his mom or the old lady from next door. No warmth or tingling, like the biology textbook describes it. That’s when he starts thinking of himself as a little bit broken. But instead of letting it bring him down, he throws himself into training instead, because when he’s tired, he can’t think about anything else. He falls on the hard ground a hundred, a thousand times and feels more whole with each fall.

 

Andres comes later, tiny and big-eyed, like a bird and twice as frightened. For whatever reason, they put him into Victor’s care and when he looks at Andres’s shaking knees, it’s not a role hard for him to assume. They become inseparable, a bubble apart from anyone else. One of the older kids tries to remark on it once and Victor can see the envy in his eyes when he looks at Andres, his sharp precise passes and his quick feet. He bares his teeth, draws up to his full height and stares at the kid until he backs down. No one bothers Andres after that or remarks on their closeness. They become a thing at the school, no more remarkable than the grass on the training ground or the uncomfortable benches in the classrooms.

 

Victor grows up and he grows up handsome. He gets good at playing the game, watches the others flirt, watches the girls toss their hair and the boys square their shoulders. Apparently it comes naturally to him, the appeal, maybe from the air of danger and disinterest he always seems to project. “Effortlessly sexual,” a girl once called him at one of the rare parties he’s attended and he almost laughs in her face at the irony. She’s older and her grin is sharp, and Victor wishes he could have stayed with Andres in their room, practiced catching free kicks in the limited space between the desk and the bed post. He gets home late that night, sneaks in through the window because it’s past their curfew. Andres is already asleep, curled up in the lower bunk that also happens to be Victor’s. Victor looks at him for a moment, then reaches out to smooth down a strand of hair from his forehead. They’d used to sleep together in bunks like these, back when Andres would get homesick and teary eyed, and Victor would climb in with him, hug him against his body like he used to with his little sister when it was cold and they were trying to save on heat.

 

The bunks are too small for two now. He climbs to Andres’s instead, falls asleep and dreams of nothing.

 

The thing is, he knows he loves Andres. He likes it when Andres touches him and sometimes daydreams about holding his hand during particularly boring math assignments. He can even, sometimes, imagine kissing him. But to touch him elsewhere and to be touched by him in return? That’s overwhelming. It gapes up like a pit in his stomach and he throws himself on the ground harder, chases the ball and clutches onto it like it might fill that pit with its perfect roundness. But some things can’t be fixed, just glued up to become mirrors of themselves.

 

He knows he’s hurting Andres, when he pulls away too quickly when they hug, when he sits further apart than he used to, but he can’t be any other way than this, he’s tried, and it’s better that he pulls away now than that he hurts Andres even more further down the line.

 

And then all his good intentions get washed away, because Andres kisses him one evening, in the room they’d shared since they were kids. Victor starts crying. It spills out of him, the whole story, about the magazine and about the girl and about knowing that he’s broken, that his parts don’t work the way they should. Andres holds his hand through it all, wipes his tears after and smooths his hair. For once it feels like Victor’s big hands are dwarfed by Andres’s small ones, like he’s somehow become the one that needs protecting. 

 

It’s years later that he finally hears the word asexual, learns it in the way it applies to himself, feels the warmth of it heal the cracks that were never there, he’d just through they were. And Andres is still there, holding his hand through it all.

 


	5. 5. Emre Can/Jordon Ibe - Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordon comes back to a changed Liverpool. Emre is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this picture](http://41.media.tumblr.com/39d87eea55d27ad63519999099764d42/tumblr_nk1ksd8yRH1s87ddmo1_500.jpg/)
> 
> Written at the start of the season and so features Stevie and Raheem. Jordon came back from a loan.

 

Coming back to Anfield is like coming home.

 

Maybe it’s weird to feel so comfortable in Liverpool. His mates make fun of him sometimes, asking him to teach them how to speak Scouser. Still, feeling his cleats sink into the soft Melwood grass, Jordon ducks down to hide a smile behind his tightly wound scarf. Next to him, Steven Gerrard lets out a string of curses at the cold air, and that’s not something he’s ever gonna get used to. Jordon grew up with Gerarrd posters on his wall, proud and defiant in his England jersey. He’d slept curled up around his only football he had and dreamt a dreamless sleep, because dreaming of playing alongside him was too much to imagine. And now he was here.

 

Jordon can see Phil Couthino already warming up by the cones, swathed in jumpers and scarves, looking more like a ninja than a magician. Martin Skrtel scowls at the sharp wind as if it’s personally offending him and Razza is doing a little dance around him too keep warm. Then there’s Mario fucking Balotelli blinking innocuously at him from where he’s already stretching out on the pitch, and how has this become Jordon’s life?

 

His feet are sure on the grass, but maybe his knees are shaking just a little. He’s got no idea how he’s earned his place among these men, but it’s humbling as much as it scares him shitless. He catches himself instinctively searching the grounds for Studge, even though he knows the man is still down with an injury. He’d missed the warmth of his grin, the easy friendship they’d built up on a shared love of music and fashion and he’s craving his reassurance right now.

 

Hendo knocks into his shoulder then, quotes a Drake lyric as if he’s reading his mind, and Jordon can’t help it; he laughs. Hendo keeps running, throws a grin over his shoulder, until he catches up with Stevie and falls into step with him. Jordon watches as his shoulders straighten to match the captain’s. That’s maybe the biggest change of all.

 

The Hendo he’d known didn’t have this pressure weighting down his shoulders, didn’t watch Stevie like he might be able to build himself in his image through sheer force of will.

 

Hendo breaks away from Stevie after a quiet exchange and heads towards where Balotelli is playing keepy-uppies with his hands tucked in his pockets. Hendo grins at him and says something Jordon can’t hear, and Balotelli smiles back, hesitantly. It lights up his face.

 

The coach calls for them to pair up and Jordon finds himself momentarily at a loss. He looks around the grounds for a free partner and notices another unfamiliar face. The guy is taller than him and bigger across the shoulders, but he looks about as lost as Jordon feels, so when their gazes meet Jordon smiles at him, in a way that is hopefully comforting and not creepy. Judging by the grin he gets in return, he’s hit his mark. Jordon heads to where he’s standing.

 

“Hey,” Jordon says, still smiling. “I’m Jordon. Wanna be partners?”

 

“Emre,” Emre says, taking Jordon’s offered hand. “I’d love to.”

 

Emre’s hands are bare, even in the cold, which strikes Jordon as unusual, until he notices the way he pulls down the sleeves of his jacket and balls them in his hands so they cover his knuckles.

 

It’s cute.

 

 

*

 

 

They start spending more time together after that.

 

Emre’s English is still a bit awkward, meanings lost in mispronounced syllables and missing words. Jordon does a lot of pantomime at first, but Emre is a quick learner. Jordon makes it his personal goal to make Emre unlearn every bit of Scouse his vocabulary has amassed so far.

 

Emre still hits him with “Alright, lad?” fairly often, but that’s because he’s actually a little shit.

 

Exploring Liverpool with Emre gives him the excuse to reconnect with some of the things he’d loved about it. He feels almost like a teenager when he and Emre take stupid pictures in front of the Superlambanana and post them in the team’s group chat, but then he remembers that, screw it, he IS a teenager.

 

Just a normal teenager going out on a date with his mate and having fun, while occasionally ducking out of the way of someone with a prominent Everton badge on his clothing.

 

Studge keeps sending him these knowing looks and he’s pretty sure he’d narrowly avoided a safe-sex discussion with a worried looking Hendo just the other day, but that’s just them being silly. He and Emre are just friends.

 

Okay, so he’s listening to a lot more Drake these days and maybe some of Emre’s Turkish rap has managed to find its way onto his iPod, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he sometimes loses his trail of thought when Emre smiles at him, but that doesn’t mean anything either.

 

Or rather, it doesn’t mean anything up to the point where Emre kisses him after the umpteenth time they’d gone out to dinner. Emre pulls back quickly and starts apologizing, taking Jordon’s surprise as rejection.

 

He keeps apologizing until Jordon tugs him back and quiets him with kisses. 

 

 


	6. 6. FC Barcelona - One time, at band camp...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of an orchestra AU than band camp actually, but silly all the way.

Pedro plays the tuba. I have no idea where this is going, but I’m utterly and completely sure of the fact that Pedro Rodriguez Ledesma plays the tuba and he’s a damn virtuoso.

 

Geri, Marc and Jordi make up the percussion section. They tend to go their own way, freestyle a little, but it still sounds good, so they mostly just let them do their thing. Xavi plays the viola and also functions as an unofficial camp counselor. He’s going to study music after this summer ends, was accepted in every music academy in Spain, but choose to stay in Barcelona, near his family and friends. They call him Maestro sometimes, but not too often, because it usually makes him blush and hide his face behind the viola’s chinrest.

 

Andres plays the cello and sometimes gets so focused on playing he forgets to look at the notes, only for it to end up sounding better than the notes suggest anyway. Xavi still has to poke him with his bow sometimes, lest he keep playing after everyone else had already stopped. None of them have figured out how Masche carries the double bass exactly, but he makes it look so easy.

 

Rounding out their string section is Lionel Messi on violin. He came to them from Argentina, small and determined, clutching at the neck of his violin like a token. When they first heard him play a solo they couldn’t play for an hour afterwards because everyone had tears in their eyes and you can’t play your instrument if you’re crying.

 

Then they get this new kid, from Brazil, skinny and wide-eyed, and he comes into the practice room holding his instrument in front of him like a weapon. But then all it takes is Dani jumping from behind the xylophone and greeting him enthusiastically to get the kid smiling. His name is Neymar and he plays the concert flute. 

 

There’s a weird tension while they prep their instruments, because last year they got a new kid too and it didn’t work out so well. Ibra and his trumpet were bright and loud and exciting, but maybe they were too much and the sharp-eyed Swede never returned to their camp. 

 

It only takes a few notes for everyone to breathe a sigh of relief.

 

Andres starts them off with the cello and Leo comes in on the violin, easy as always. Then it’s time for the flute. Neymar and Leo share a look, and then Neymar comes in, all beautiful bright tones and a small smile on his face. By the end of the song they’re all smiling.

 

It works.


	7. 7. Thiago and Rafinha Alcantara - Phone calls to Pep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thiago moves to Germany and Rafinha is worried. So, he calls the mister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less of a fic, more of a headcanon. Set after Thiago's return from injury

Thiago’s phone rings on the bus ride after, and it’s be a little loud, because of the celebration, but not as loud as usual, because Pep knows they played an ugly game even if he’d never say that to the press. But, his phone rings and it’s Rafa, of course, all warmth and sunshine that’s too scarce in Germany and _“Congratulations big brother, I’m proud of you.”_   They, only for Pep’s head to pop up a few seats in front, saying: _“Is that Rafinha? Tell him hello!”_

 

So Thiago says to Rafinha _“Hey, the Mister says hello,”_ even though Pep was never Rafa’s Mister, not really, but Thiago also knows what Pep means to all the kids in the _Cantera_ and that Pep will always be a little bit theirs, no matter where he plays.

 

He can almost hear Rafa's smile across the fizzy phone line as he says, _"Hello to him too. You should tell him he owes me one, he'll know what that means."_ Thiago frowns at his phone, but repeats the message to Pep in hesitant Catalan, almost expecting a reprimand, but getting a laugh instead.

(Pep insists on English or German in practice and Thiago knows why even if it frequently annoys him, but sometimes he'll pull him aside to speak a few words in Catalan)

_"I told you, didn't I?"_

 

*

 

  
There was another phone call that Thiago doesn't know about, to Pep after Thiago was already packed and miles above Europe. Pep didn’t know why he took it, because it was an unknown number and he’s at a point in his life where he can afford to ignore those. The voice on the other side was familar, but not immediately. 

“Mr. Guardiola? This is Rafael Alcantara.” And he knows Rafinha, has studied his form, his quick feet and judged not yet, not yet, but maybe in a year…

“Has something happened with your brother?” He'd asked, worried, knowing that there was usually never one without the other (until now, since he’s put that contract in front of Thiago and he’d signed it). 

“My brother is on his way,” Rafinha said and Pep heard the unspoken ‘that’s the problem’ because he’s always known how to listen, if nothing else. 

“But, Mister…” he took a deep breath “…will you take care of him? He’s shy when he meets new people and last night was the first time he found München on the map and when the sun doesn’t shine it makes him depressed and…” he broke off and Pep searched for something reassuring to say without making a promise, because in football there can be none. 

He finally replies in halting Portuguese even though Rafinha has be speaking in Catalan. “He’ll be okay,” he said “I’ll take care of him as much as I can. He’s from La Masia, you know what that means. I haven’t forgotten.”

Rafinha thanked him through half stifled sobs, over and over again, until Pep gently said goodbye.

 

*

 

Thiago plays well, until the moment he doesn’t, when his knee shatters from under him and Pep feels his scream resonate in his own bones. 

 

That night he gets a phone call and the number isn’t unknown, but he almost doesn’t take it.

 

“How is my brother,”  Rafael’s voice is calm and icy and he never accuses Pep of anything during their conversation, but he doesn’t have to, because his quiet fury is enough. “Will he play again?”

 

Pep says yes, because if Thiago has half his brother’s backbone, how could he not?


	8. Pierreus - Replacement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auba reflects on his place in Marco's life.

Auba knows he’s a replacement when he comes, because everyone is a replacement in the football world, no one is fixed, no one plays forever, one injury one mistake and you’re out. That’s why the one-club men are so cherished, so absolutely admired (but Auba can’t be like them, can’t stay at Saint-Étienne because he wants more, can’t stay at Milan because they don’t want him, so he has to move on and search, search for somewhere to belong). He knows he’s a replacement from the way Marco sometimes looks sad when he looks at his phone, from the way he plays with passion burdened by hunger, by desperation. He gets it.

 

And yet…

 

Marco’s got this way of looking at you that makes you feel like he knows secrets you’ve forgotten. Marco’s praise is more important just because Auba knows how hard he is on himself. Marco sometimes can’t communicate, but somehow understands everything Auba wants to say. Marco makes him feel like they have something special, something more, somewhere to belong. So when they kiss, Auba sinks into him like a starving man, his shields chipped, bashed in and broken, his golden chains and white flags laid at his feet. But Marco is right there with him, dark eyes shining, fingers tracing the lines of Auba’s tattoo, drawing wings on his back where there’s only been burden before.

 

And yet…

 

Marco smiles at Robert like they’ve got a secret. Like they’re unbroken, fixed. Like they understand each other. Auba slides his eyes away, bites his lips until they bleed, tangles fingers in his shirt until its stretched and pretends he doesn’t want to reach out to grip Marco’s shoulder, slotting his fingers over the phantom touch trace he’s left there. But Marco smiles and smiles and Auba loves him and keeps his mouth shut to muffle the screaming when the two of them follow the rules of their secret handshake and speak in a language Auba still doesn’t understand.

 

And yet…

 

Marco shakes Robert’s hand and says goodbye, moves over to stand at Auba’s right like he belongs there, like he’s been there all along, a fixed point. Auba doesn’t feel like a replacement then, when Marco untwists his fingers from his shirt and twines him with his own. He feels cherished and admired and absolutely loved and maybe his search is over and maybe he doesn’t know enough German to say ‘you're everything’ but he knows enough to say ‘I love you’ and that’ll have to be enough.

 

 


	9. Pierreus - Fairy Tale AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auba is the Prince and Marco is the Pauper, but some endings are meant to be

Auba is a prince who’s fallen into a depression after the death of his father, the King. His mother, the Queen, does her best to cheer him up with the help of her subjects, but nothing works and it’s like the sun has disappeared, dropping the kingdom into a permanent gloom.

 

So the Queen organizes a contest, inviting all the best entertainers from all over the world to try and make her son laugh. In exchange, they would receive a big sum of gold and a choice to get one of the treasury’s priceless artifacts.

 

They come from all over, drawn by the money or the promise of fame, but Auba is unimpressed by all of them. Jugglers, musicians, fire-breathers and poets, he regards all of them with the same amount of apathy. This goes on for three days and nothing works.

 

Until the end of the third day, a man walks in, holding a leather ball. ‘Another juggler’ comes the alarmed whisper from the gallery. They’ve seen enough jugglers in the past three days to last them a life time. The Queen bids him for his name and origin, for his garb is dirty and full of patched up holes, in stark contrast to the court’s finery.

 

“My name is Marco,” he says, “I am but a farmer’s son. But I’ve heard of your son’s plight, though the words do his beauty little justice. I want to help.”

 

“Proceed,” says the Queen, moved despite herself.

 

Marco starts bouncing the ball off his feet, then his knees and calves. It’s a simple thing, a child’s play but…whispers go up in the crowd. The prince has shown the first sign of interest since this debacle started. 

 

Slowly, as Marco juggles the ball in increasingly complex patterns, a small smile starts appearing on Auba’s face and grows bigger. The crowd holds their breath. 

 

Then, disaster strikes.

 

Marco slips on something, cartwheels and falls flat on his arse, the ball rolling to a stop in front of the throne.

 

Breaking the pregnant silence is a sound none of the present have heard for months. Prince Auba is laughing. 

 

He shakes off his heavy courtly cloak and runs down the steps, kneeling next to Marco to help him stand up.

 

“You silly walnut,” he says. “Are you hurt?”

 

Marco shakes his head mutely and a huge cheer starts in the crowd, warmed to their hearts by the magic sight of their prince’s happy grin.

 

And in that moment it seems like the clouds have finally cleared, revealing the sky painted in colors of a beautiful sunset. The sun has returned to the land.

 

The Queen declares for the festivities to start immediately and to go on for three days and three night. The musicians start playing, the servants bring in the food and the streets fill with people celebrating. Marco and Prince Auba spend almost all of those three days together; dancing, playing football (a game Auba had played in his youth, before his courtly duties drew him away) and smiling at each other like they’re alone in the world.

 

At the end of the three days, Marco is brought before the Queen again. He tries to keep a neutral face, but the sight of Auba, resplendent in his royal finery, fills him with awe. The Queen has to clear her throat twice before his attention snaps back to her.

 

“You’ve won the contest,” she says, “and we are grateful. The gold is yours, the sum enough to buy yourself a small kingdom. The treasury’s doors are open to you, what will you choose?”

 

The treasury of the kingdom was full of wondrous things. Swords made of jade that never had to be sharpened, crystal cups that never went empty, priceless jewels and intricately carved items. Marco doesn’t hesitate.

 

“I would dare ask you for the most precious jewel in your kingdom, your Majesty. Bright is the shine of diamonds and gold, but the prince shines all the brighter. If I could stand by his side for the rest of my life, then I would be the happiest man in this world.”

 

The Queen turns to her son, knowing the moment she sees him that the decision has already been made. The Prince’s joy is practically tangible, his smile bright and healing like the dawn. His eyes shine with love, and all they see is Marco, his clothes changed to finer garb, but his hands still rougher than any lord had right to be. But his face is lit up with the same love, and nothing could stand in the path of that, not status, or distance, or even the Queen.

 

“So be it,” she says and the Prince jumps into his love’s arms while the court cheers and laughs.

 

In the middle of the celebrations, the two young men hold each other close and laugh at a joke only they can hear.

 

 


	10. Pierreus - Auba is the perfect boyfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not! lazy mornings and breakfast in bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Joey, because it was his birthday.

Marco wakes with a groan. The space on the bed next to him is empty, and his stomach drops in disappointment. He’d thought…

 

He hears a loud curse coming from the kitchen and then water running in the sink. Marco relaxes then, stretches over to the other side of the bed, which is rapidly cooling, but still smells like Auba. Closing his eyes, he buries his head in the pillow.

 

“Oh, I see the whole bed is yours now,” Auba says from the doorway.

 

“Yep,” Marco grins and rolls onto his back. “You’ve been exiled.”

 

“Since when do you know complicated words like ‘exiled’?” Auba is smiling and it takes the sting out to his words, but Marco frowns anyway.

 

“Hey, I read stuff. In fact, I’m reading a book now. In English. Mats recommended it.”

 

“And how’s that going?” Auba takes a sip of orange juice from the glass in his hand and Marco allows himself a moment to just admire him.

 

Auba is shirtless, wearing just a pair of colorful boxers. The light escaping through the blinds draws bright slashes against his skin. His hair is sticking up every which way as it usually does in the mornings (it makes Marco feel good that he knows that, that there’ve been enough mornings to notice).  His eyes crinkle when he smiles, still a little sleepy and slow.

 

He’s gorgeous.

 

“I’m on the third page.”

 

“You’ll get there,” Auba laughs. “I believe in you.”

 

He sits at the foot of the bed and wiggling ensues as he tries to catch Marco’s ankle under the sheet with both his feet. Finally, Auba pins him down and Marco sits up to take the glass of orange juice from Auba’s unresisting hands. It’s a miracle they haven’t spilled it yet.

 

“Did you burn down my kitchen?” Marco takes a sip. The orange juice is freshly squeezed. He didn’t even know he had oranges, where did Auba find them?

 

“Nope. Just my finger,” Auba holds up his thumb and Marco squints at it. It doesn’t look any redder than usual, so Auba is probably bullshitting.

 

“Do you want me to kiss it better?” Marco throws in a flirty wink for good measure.

 

“Oh, I don’t doubt your skills as a nurse, but breakfast is ready and I didn’t burn my hand for it to grow cold.” For some reason, most of his super-slick moves never work on Auba.

 

Marco frowns. The bed is so nice and warm, and he doesn’t want to leave it yet. Auba has moved to massaging his ankle with his fingers, which is also nice.

 

“Why not breakfast in bed?”

 

“Because you always leave crumbs everywhere and that’s gross. There’s no way I’m sleeping on your toast crumbs,” Auba says and he’s using his ‘mom’ voice, so Marco doesn’t even attempt to argue. He’d met Mama Aubameyang a few months ago and she’d struck the fear of god in him.

 

“Fine,” Marco pouts. He sets the glass on the nightstand and makes grabby hands at Auba, until he leans forward for an obligatory good morning kiss.

 

A few minutes later, they’re still making out and Auba’s hands are inching somewhere way more inappropriate. Marco breaks the kiss and notices Auba’s dilated pupils with satisfaction.

 

“Breakfast first. So your finger didn’t suffer in vain.”

 

Marco gets up and after a moment, Auba follows, overtakes him, laying a loud smack on his ass before breaking out into a run.

 

“Last one in the kitchen does the dishes!”

 

“We have a fucking dishwasher!” Marco yells back, but runs after him anyway.


	11. Neymessi - Neymar is bad at flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neymar tries to get Leo's attention

Neymar has tried everything at this point.

 

In the past few weeks, he’s worn his tightest pants on several separate occasions, cut his hair twice and changed his cologne. He’s hugged Leo several times (always enthusiastically reciprocated, always in the middle of a game) and kissed his cheek exactly twice (once in the middle of a game;Leo hadn’t noticed because Geri pulled him into his armpit right after, and once in the locker room where Leo had just smiled and patted his arm. Neither was encouraging).

 

He’d played with Leo’s son (granted he would have done that anyway, Thiago was cute) and endured Leo putting his dirty socks in front of Neymar’s locker. He’d brought Leo an extra piece of bread at breakfast so he wouldn’t have to get up. He’d even made Leo a mixtape. It featured Christina Perri and two old Shakira songs. That was a low point.

 

And yet, nothing. Not a single indication that Lionel Messi was interested in being more than friends. Neymar was beginning to lose hope. Dani kept laughing at him.

 

There was no way Leo couldn’t have noticed the way Neymar looked at him, right? How obvious would he have to be?

 

 

*

 

 

Cornering him naked in the shower was apparently what did the trick.

 

 

*

 

 

Leo hadn’t noticed a thing.

 


	12. Carlamberlain - Nicknames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure Banter (TM)

“Hey boo, have you seen my spare cleats? Last I remember they were under the bed because I was using them as slippers.”

 

“…”

 

“Jenko? My cleats?”

 

“Did you just call me ‘boo’?”

 

“What? No, of course not!”

 

“You did, Chambo, you just called me ‘boo’!”

 

“Well, what’s wrong with ‘boo’? It’s a perfectly acceptable affectionate nickname! Would you have preferred ‘pumpkin’? Sugar Lump? Golden Balls? Sunshine Pikachu?”

 

“Who uses Sunshine Pikachu?”

 

“Don’t ask, but Aaron apparently. I don’t know what’s going on with that kid.”

 

“Well, you’re no better!”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with ‘boo’!”

 

“Apart from the fact that you’re still using it. We’re not even together, Chambo.”

 

“… right.”

 

“Chambo?”

 

“Well…my clothes are in your closet. I’ve got my shower gel here because yours smells like dying sea lions. I sleep here more often than I do at home and I think your parents are about to adopt me. We’re a little bit together.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“…just so you know, calling someone ‘boo’ is totally not an acceptable way to define your relationship.”

 

“Well, it worked, didn’t it, boo?”

 

“Don’t call me that ever again.”

 

“Sure, boo.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“Love you too, boo.”


	13. Gerard Pique and Carles Puyol - Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations between two of Barcelona's finest center backs

Carles is scared of a lot of things.

 

Maybe that’s weird, with the strength and stability he tries to project when the armband is snug around his upper arm. 

 

But maybe being brave isn’t actually the absence of fear, but instead the strength to face it head on. He’s not sure who told him that. Maybe it was Lucho, sneering at a sea of white shirts. Or Pep, standing in Camp Nou, the whistles mixed with the cheers hitting him like a blow. It could have even been Leo, but Carles doubted it. Leo wasn’t afraid of anything.

 

Carles is scared, but he knows to hide it.

 

 

*

 

 

Geri’s never really been good at hiding anything, not even from Carles (maybe especially not from Carles). His joy is as readily apparent as his anger, his fear in the way he presses closer in the narrow tunnels before game time.

 

He sees the worried looks Geri’s been sending him all season, looks that turn into false cheer when Carles catches them. He wonders when Geri started feeling like he should spare him the worry.

 

He knows why Geri is worried. He’s right to be, as it turns out. Carles has 2 more years left of his contract but he’s not going to fill them. His body says enough, even if his hear wants more, always more. He knows he’s leaving at the end of the season even if he hasn’t told anyone.

 

Maybe Geri knows that too. He’s always seen further than what Carles thought to show him. It’s what made him so good at their job.

 

 

*

 

 

Geri corners him after a win. The stadium is empty and they’re the only ones left, except for a few of the staff. They put on their everyday clothes in silence. 

 

When Carles looks up from fastening his pants, Geri is standing in front of him.

 

“Are you going?” he asks, his voice rough and shaky. “After this season is over, are you leaving?”

 

“I…yeah. I haven’t told anyone, but yes.” It’s still strange to say it out loud to anyone besides his girlfriend or his agent.

 

He expects a lot of reactions to it. An armful of a crying Gerard Pique is not one of them. 

 

“Please,” Geri curls up to press his face against Carles’s neck, his bear tickling the exposed skin. “Please don’t go, Puyi. We need you.”

 

“I have to. I’m tired Geri,” Carles sighs, reaching up to pet at Geri’s hair. 

 

“I can’t do it without you.” “Yes, you can. I know you can.”

 

“But Puyi, I’m scared!” Geri lifts his head and there are tears in his blue eyes, and Carles has a sudden mad impulse to call the whole thing off, to try for another year, another trophy besides this man, who seems to think he’d change his mind if he just holds him strongly enough. 

 

“That’s okay. I’m scared too, all the time,” Geri looks at him incredulously, shakes his head like Carles is telling him something entirely stupid. “It’s true. But everyone is scared, Geri. The trick is to face it head on. That’s true bravery.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luis Enrique came to Barca on a free transfer from Real Madrid and the absolute hate he inspired in their fans is the stuff of legends (though nothing compared to how we treated Luis Figo after he went to Madrid). Lucho gave the captain’s armband to Puyi after he retired. As for Pep, his last season in Barca was a tough one. The fans were divided by our losses and the things written about him in the media and he bore the brunt of it, especially after falling out with the board. He left in disgrace and deeply hurt.


	14. Skagger - All the time in the world

Daniel isn’t blind. A third of his job is to be aware of 22 people on a football pitch for more than 90 minutes, and it’s not something you just forget once the pressure is off. 

 

He notices the way Martin lingers just a bit too long in a hug, how he presses his hand on Dan’s shoulder when he walks past. He notices how distracted Martin gets when Dan walks around naked, and not just because of the tattoos.

 

It’s flattering. 

 

He used to think that maybe that was all he felt, but you don’t get to be in his position without having no concept of self-reflection. He’s caught himself leaning into Martin’s touch when it comes. Dan has no idea where this is going, but he cares about Martin. He’s willing to find out. They can take it slow.

 

After all, they’ve got all the time in the world.


	15. Kunessi - Almost on vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo comes home from training to an uninvited guest

The last thing Leo expects when he finally gets home after a long day is his front door unlocked and all his kitchen cupboards open. He’d think it was a burglar if there wasn’t a few pieces of luggage in the foyer. What kind of burglar would rob a house and then move in?

 

The rest is a process of elimination: Antonella and Thiago are on vacation at his parent’s for the week, and he just saw Masche at training. The only other person who has the key is Kun, who, judging by the trail of clothes and disarray, is in the upstairs bedroom.

 

He opens his eyes when Leo walks in, rolls onto his back and smiles like the sunrise. Leo has seen way too many of those smiles to entirely trust them, but he can’t help being a little bit warmed by it.

 

“Hi,” Kun says, blinking sleepily, “you weren’t here so I let myself in.”

 

“I can see that,” Leo snorts. He settles at the foot of the bed, leaning against the wooden board. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Toronto, meeting famous people?”

 

“Mm, that was yesterday. Will Smith speaks really good Spanish,” Kun shifts so his toes are touching Leo’s under the covers. “Do you count as famous people if I’ve known you all my life?”

 

“Probably not. You don’t sleep in his bed half-naked, do you?” Leo settles more comfortably, watches as Kun starts tapping out a cumbia song on Leo’s toes.

 

“Naked.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m totally naked under here.” Again with the innocent smile. Leo sighs.

 

“Anto is going to kill you.” 

 

“Anto loves me. Besides, I called her to tell her I was coming. She’s bringing me rice crispies when they come back.”

 

“Of course she is,” Leo mutters. “And none of you thought to inform me of this? There’s almost no food in the house, I was about to go shopping tomorrow.”

 

“Hmmm,” Kun’s eyes are already slipping shut. “Come nap with me, I bet you’ve got some of Masche’s chicken hidden around here anyway.”

 

“But I’m hungry,” Leo whines, but he’s already pulling off his socks and shirt, and shorts, before crawling under the covers to press close to Kun’s sleepy warmth.

 

“Nap now, eat later,” Kun says, burying his face in Leo’s shoulder.

 

“I still think Anto’s going to be mad you put your dirty balls all over our bed.”

 

“Excuse me, my balls are perfectly delightful and you should be honored they’re visiting.”

 

“You’re so full of shit, Agüero.”

 

“Actually, I pooped when I came in.”

 

“Oh great, the bathroom is going to be toxic for the next few hours.”

 

“Leo, shut up and sleep.”


	16. Rafinha/Ter Stegen - Take it off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafinha has a habit of messing with his head

 

It’s a well established fact in the FC Barcelona dressing room that while Rafael Alcantara is a wonderful friend and a great human being, he’s also occasionally a complete shit.

 

Marc- Andre gets targeted more often than most, because he doesn’t scream like Neymar or hit him like Dani or even retaliate like Geri does. He just rolls his eyes and calls Rafinha an asshole (incidentally the first Spanish word he learned. It serves him well).

 

So maybe it shouldn’t surprise him when he walks into the dressing room one morning to find Rafinha modeling his kit to a largely disinterested audience. Marc-Andre expected a punishment for being almost late for training, but not this. 

 

Rafinha is broader across the shoulders and the kit is stretched worryingly tight. He’s even put on the shorts, and is currently shaking his ass in it to the beat of some Spanish song that someone put through the speakers. 

 

Marc-Andre has had enough.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” it’s spoken quietly, eerily calm. 

 

“I’m the goalkeeper today!” Rafinha smiles brightly and tugs at the fabric. “Did you know I used to train to be one? But then it turned out I liked running too much!”

 

Marc-Andre grits his teeth. Behind him, Neymar starts making warning signals with his hands, before he gets pulled out of the room by Leo, safely away from the explosion.

 

“Take it off.”

 

“Nope!”

 

“Rafinha.  **** _Take. It. Off_ ** _._** “ And Rafinha must have no self-preservation at all, because he smirks up at him and shifts his body closer.

 

“Make me,” he says.

 

 

*

 

 

They’re late for training. They’re  _so_  late for training.


	17. Luis Suarez and Fernando Torres - Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fernando gets a phone call when he moves to Madrid

 

They don’t talk after Fernando leaves Liverpool.

 

Not except for a few cursory words before matches anyway. 

 

Fernando goes on to have some of the worst seasons of his life, the burden of failure weighting sharply on the panes of his back, poison slipping through his bones like molasses, and endless sinking blue. 

 

Meanwhile, Luis shines like a diamond. Fernando knew he would. How could he not, with Stevie looking at him with the same breathless belief he used to show to Fernando, with Raheem charging down the flanks with the bluntness of his youth (Fernando remembers being that young once. Remembers the Calderon clamped around his arm like a vice.) Liverpool rises, and Fernando falls further.

 

Then, absolution comes. Milan was warm, but stepping into the Vincente Calderon feels like seeing the sun after years in darkness. The Mister claps a warm hand on his shoulder as he passes and it dislodges some of the cobwebs in his chest. His homeground howls his name and he rises to meet them in response.

 

Luis calls him after a few days in Madrid. (Fernando’s forgotten he even gave him his number, made him promise to call ‘if he ever needs anything’) (Luis hadn’t)

 

“How are you settling in?” Luis asks, his accent unusual but familiar, and Fernando stands in the living room of his old home (the house he kept, because he trusted he’d be back) and watches his children play in the soft grass outside.

 

“Good,” he says.

 

“It was a matter of time,” he can hear the smile in Luis’s voice and wonders, again, why he’s calling. They’re friends but not really. “Rivals now, right?”

 

“Again, you mean,” Fernando finds himself responding to the warmth in his tone, grinning despite himself. Luis had always known him a bit too well.

 

“Unfortunately,” Luis says, and then there’s a sound in the background, a little girl’s voice and a muttered exchange. Fernando waits and tries to pretend he isn’t listening. Luis’s voice is softer when he’s talking to his daughter and the softness lingers when he speaks into the phone again. “I still want to play with you, you know. Just once.”

 

“Yeah,” Fernando breathes, remembers something almost like a promise. He’s broken a few of those in his lifetime. “We’ll organize it. Meet somewhere in a park, halfway between Barcelona and Madrid, so it’s fair.”

 

Luis laughs with his whole body, unusually high and squeaky for a big man.

 

“Alright,” he says, “we have a deal.”

 

Fernando smiles, bids him goodbye and promises not to foul him the next time they meet, which just makes Luis laugh harder.

 

The room is quiet after he hangs up the phone. He surveys the far wall, still a work in progress, multicolored jerseys mounted up with no seeming rhyme or reason. His eyes linger on one in particular for a minute too long, before he turns and walks out to join his children.

 

The falling Madrid sunshine brightens the white  _Gerrard_ in the burning red.

 


	18. Neymar/Zlatan Ibrahimovic - Make me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zlatan is so done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild D/S undertones

 

If the journalists ask, Zlatan doesn’t know his name.

 

He’s barely worthy of notice really, a slip of a kid, all tan skin, long legs and a lazy expression. Zlatan hates being replaced, but replaced by this? It’s insulting.

 

“What are you looking at?” Neymar says, looking up from where he’s sprawled on Zlatan’s couch, scrolling through his phone. He’s got to tilt his head way up to meet Zlatan’s eyes and it exposes the long column of his neck. Like an offering, if it weren’t for the tone of his voice.

 

“Zlatan looks at whatever he wants,” as retorts go, it isn’t his best. But then again,  most of what he says is better than what the rest of humanity can come up with anyway.

 

“So you want to look at me.” The smirk is back, drunk on the illusion of power and some sort of adolescent self-assurance. Zlatan has no time for that. He’s not a psychologist.

 

“Maybe I’m wondering why you’re still here and not on the bed yet.” They have this game they play sometimes. Zlatan never loses. 

 

“You haven’t asked yet.” The kid is infuriating, from his dark eyes down to his too-expensive sneakers, and Zlatan is reaching the end of his patience. He takes three steps across the floor to press his hand against the kid’s throat. Not too hard, as not to choke him (that comes later, if Zlatan feels like it), but strong enough that he feels his pulse start to race under his fingers.

 

“We won’t make it to the bed at this rate,” Zlatan feels the vibration of the words through his hand, the sharp intake of breath when he presses down harder. Neymar falls quiet, breathing even. His mouth is slack, all traces of the smirk gone. 

 

Good. 

 

“Maybe I want you right here,” Zlatan throws his leg over the kid’s hips, shifts so he’s covering him with his weight. It must be almost crushing, but Neymar doesn’t make a sound, watching him with dark eyes and a placid expression. “Or maybe I’ll throw you out, leave you waiting on the porch until the paparazzi come and see you begging.”

 

A sharp intake of breath, and panic starts flooding Neymar’s face, his head jerking under Zlatan’s hands. He tightens his grip and the kid stops moving, panting. Zlatan can feel him sweating, heart pounding, the pulse strong against Zlatan’s fingers. Like a rabbit caught in a trap.

 

“Good. You move or say anything I don’t order you to do for the next two hours, and I throw you out. Understood? Nod once if yes.”

 

Neymar swallows dryly and nods. Zlatan smiles. It’s not unlike what a wolf might look like if it found a rabbit alone in the woods.

 

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

 

If anyone asks, Zlatan doesn’t know his name.

 

 


	19. Kuneymessi - Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kun and Leo have a little chat

 

They have this ritual sometimes before games, because neither of them sleeps very well, too tense or keyed up. They lay in bed together, pressed close under the covers, Kun’s front against Leo’s back, his face buried in Leo’s neck, and they talk. Sometimes about nothing. Sometimes about everything.

 

They’ve been doing this since they were kids.

 

“Hey, Leo,” Kun murmurs against his neck, “tell me a secret?”

 

It’s a silly thing to ask. They don’t have a lot of secrets from each other, especially not the big ones. But this time is different, this time Leo hesitates.

 

“I think Neymar likes me,” he says and Kun snickers against his neck, nosing at the short soft hairs there.

 

“Hardly a secret,  _amor_. He’s made it pretty obvious that he does. You’re very likeable.” Kun skims one hand down Leo’s flank to where he’s ticklish and Leo snorts.

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

“I think I like him too,” Leo says and Kun stills.

 

“Ah,” he eventually says, “I see. Does Anto know?”

 

Leo turns around in Kun’s arms to look at him incredulously.

 

“Right,” Kun laughs, “stupid question, of course she does.”

 

They lay for while in silence. Kun looks thoughtful and Leo feels increasingly nervous when he doesn’t break it.

 

“Are you mad?” “Hm?” “Are you mad at me?” “No,  _cielito_ , of course not. I’m just thinking.”

 

Leo takes Kun’s hand absentmindedly, twines their fingers together, feeling for familiar callouses. 

 

“What about?”

 

“How to arrange a meeting with him.” 

 

“You make that sound very sinister,” Leo says, frowning and Kun bursts out laughing.

 

“That’s not it at all! I just want to meet him. I saw him at the Champion’s league games, but very briefly.”

 

“Oh,” Leo says and now it’s Kun’s turn to frown. 

 

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic. Are you afraid I’ll fly in a jealous rage or something?”

 

“Not at all. In fact, I’m worried you’ll get along too well!”

 

Leo looks genuinely worried and Kun raises their connected hands to muffle his laughter. Zaba is sleeping next door and they don’t want to wake him and risk Masche’s subsequent wraith.

 

“We’ll gang up on you. You won’t know what hit you,” Kun says and feels Leo twitch in response. “Oh. You like that. I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

“Kun…honestly…” Leo’s blushing and Kun silently curses the darkness because he doesn’t get to see it.

 

“Were you worried,  _amor_? You shouldn’t be. I’m with you, always. Or as long as you want me.”

 

“So, always then.”

 

“Sure. Now try to sleep. Tomorrow you call Neymar and you ask for his schedule. And his favorite cumbia song. Tell him I’ll judge him for it.”

 

“God help me.”

 

“You bring these things on yourself.”

 

Silence.

 

“Hey, Kun?” 

 

“Hm?”

 

“I love you.”

 

“Love you too,  _cielito_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this fic combines several headcanons. The first is that Kun uses a lot of pet names for Leo. His favorites are amor and cielito (little sky). This one belongs almost entirely lineadecuatro, my source for everything Argentinian. The second is that Kun and Neymar get along much too well and Leo has no idea what he’s getting into.


	20. Pep Guardiola and Lionel Messi - Myth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pep returns home. It's not what he expects

 

When Pep returns to Barca  _(Odysseus grown stronger by the journey, sharper and colder, his compass always pointed **home** )_ he already knows Leo is incredible. How could he not? He watched every game still, watched it with a manager’s eye, with a player’s calculation and with the ever burning heart of a supporter  _(Ithaca always in the distance, gleaming stark against sharp rocks and burying waves)_.

 

He’s seen Leo work his magic, the fantastic alien path of his feet  _(the unlikely Hercules against a Hydra_ ), his precision, his drive. It’s exciting, managing a player like that, exciting to know him like a manager should, through his weaknesses and his losses. He wants to take him apart, take this club apart and remake them in his image  _(Penelope and her weave, **unraveling** , ever incomplete)_. He’s got a Plan.

 

But Leo surprises him. As Leo does.

 

There’s assertiveness in his quiet. Confidence when the ball is at his feet. He listens attentively to everything Pep says, repeats it back with perfect clarity, but when he’s on the field, Leo does as Leo wants  _(Icarus flying too close to the sun)_. The frustrating thing is that he’s always right  _(he is the **sun** )_. Pep isn’t used to being wrong _(maybe he’s Icarus instead - his feathers hold, but there’s blood in the water)_.

 

When Pep’s at the end of his wits, he calls Puyol to his office. Carles laughs in his face  _( **faithful**  Argos tits his head and bares a fang)_. “You don’t teach Messi football,” he says, “you let him teach you.” 

 

Pep is 37. In football years, he’s ancient. What tricks can an old dog be expected to learn? Puyol pats him on the shoulder on his way out, a spring in his step that wasn’t there last season. 

 

He’s standing at the sidelines, observing a training match, when he starts to understand what Puyol means. Leo touches the ball, guides it past three like they might as well be invisible, then curls it over an already cursing Victor, right into goal. 

 

Pep’s feet itch. There’s a knee that never sits right when he stands for too long, an ankle that taps to release the tension in its worn out joint, but in that moment he doesn’t feel them. He wants, suddenly and fiercely, to play _(Odysseus the Cunning, the Wise, who **waited**  ten long years to see familiar shores)_. The field opens up for him like map, endless possibilities leading up to one thing only - getting Leo to score again and again.

 

It’s ridiculous. He’s too old for this. Carles winks at him from the other side of the field and Pep wants to punch him.

 

He stops Leo after training, invites him to his office for a talk, only to stumble over his words under Leo’s unreadable gaze; speaking of formations, of myths, of dreams  _(Hercules needs Iolaus with his brand, or the Hydra just comes back **stronger** )_ and when he comes to the end of it, he stands sweaty and breathless in his new office, waiting for Leo’s answer.

 

Leo smiles.

 

“Xavi warned me that Mister speaks in riddles,” he says. “But we’ll realize your dream, sir. It’s ours too. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

 

“Just be you,” it comes out of Pep’s mouth in a rush and he can’t take it back. “You’re perfect.”

 

Leo blushes bright red and nods. 

 

When he leaves, Pep takes a pen and a sheet of paper and gets to work.

 

_(Icarus lands safely on solid ground. Hercules raises his sword to Hydra’s immortal neck. Odysseus sits on his throne, watching Penelope complete the last stitch._

 

_But those are **myths**.)_

 

 

This is something entirely different. Some stories you can’t make up.


	21. Gernando - Pride and Circumstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Fernando forgets

Whenever the two of them meet, on the field or at the sidelines, or blinking at the camera flashes at some charity gala, Stevie always has a smile ready for him. A clap on the back. An encouraging “How you doing, lad?”.

 

And for a second, Fernando forgets.

 

Forgets he won’t get to score and look up into that grin. Forgets that this isn’t weekday training and tactics talk, with their elbows rubbing together, Stevie’s warmth bleeding through the layers, warming him like the sparse English sunshine never could. He forgets he’s not wearing red like blood split from open veins, forgets the evening sky blue wrapped around his torso like a brand.

 

He forgets and smiles back. Lets his eyes drop after a moment, shy and strangely bashful. He forgets and lets himself be warmed.

 

But then the whistle goes or someone speaks too loudly behind them, always another match, another day, another season. And he’ll turn away, catch sight of Stevie’s expression in a mirror, or a window, see how the joy on his face is replaced by blankness. Pride turned to disappointment. Laughter to bitterness.

 

And he’ll keep watching. Let it twist into his heart like a knife, until he can’t bear it anymore.

 

Fernando’s life has never been a slave to his regrets. It can’t be, or he’d never get anywhere. He knows he’s made mistakes, lives with them every day, but he doesn’t regret making them, even when they slog through his bones, filling the empty spaces with lead.

 

But he regrets this. He regrets the twisted grimace on Stevie’s face. He regrets not being able to stand in front of him in burning shining red, worthy of his pride and his love.

 

That’s when it hurts.

 

 


	22. Xavi Hernandez/Rafinha Alcantara - Higher learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafinha wants to learn as much as possible before Xavi leaves.

 

When Rafinha comes back from Celta, he attaches himself to Xavi’s side and won’t leave except for Andres or the rest of the Brazilians.

 

At first it’s just a learning thing. Who better to teach you how to be a Barcelona midfielder than Xavi Hernandez, the midfield Maestro? It’s maybe strange, but in Rafinha’s head there’s nothing Xavi doesn’t know, no skill he can’t teach.

 

(Maybe it’s because when he first met Xavi, he’d given him an once-over and asked: “Rafinha, from Brazil, right? Midfield?” He didn’t say ‘Thiago’s little brother?’ or ‘Mazinho’s son?’ and Rafinha was absurdly grateful for it.

 

“Yeah. Like you.” Maybe his voice had shaken just a little, his smile too brittle to hold up to scrutiny, but Xavi’s face relaxed into a smile.

 

“Give it a few years, kid. Maybe you’ll be better.”

 

It was an absurd thing to say. No one was better than Xavi, not even Thiago, who shined brighter than anyone in Rafinha’s eyes. But it made him feel better.)

 

Then Xavi had invited him for a drink after training, presumably to make him feel better or check on his feelings, but then drink turned into lunch, and Xavi didn’t seem to be overwhelmed by the amount of questions Rafinha had. 

 

Sometimes when Thiago was mad at him, he said that someone needed the patience of a saint to deal with Rafinha. Xavi had that and then some. He knew so much and he didn’t hold it back, and he laughed at Rafinha’s jokes like they weren’t as stupid as they sounded, and Rafinha was maybe a little in love.

 

This wasn’t unusal. Rafinha fell in love at the drop of a hat, with the girl in the stands who had a flower in her hair, with a boy that prepped their kits with a serious face and a sparkle in his eye, with Dani’s raucous laughter and Neymar’s quiet smiles. With Xavi’s infinite patience and his excited voice disappearing into the bustle of a Catalan evening.

 

Then, Xavi told them he was leaving and suddenly there was no time to be wasted.

 

Rafinha grabbed him into a hug in the middle of drills, pressed his body close to his, close enough to feel the vibration of his laughter. He stood next to him when he could, curled up on an empty seat, paired up for stretches when Andres wasn’t there.

 

It was hard to believe that Xavi didn’t notice. Xavi noticed everything. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t ask and so Rafinha didn’t press. 

 

Then the Triple was theirs, the cold steel of the Champions League trophy warmed by their adoring hands and Rafinha looked out across the field to see his grin mirrored on Xavi’s face.

 

He grabbed him into a hug later, Xavi’s hands coming to squeeze his middle and he leaned down to whisper into his ear.

 

“There are many people in this world, but El Maestro is the greatest,” and he didn’t know if Xavi even heard him in the roar of the crowd but their medals clinked together when they separated and Xavi offered him the other handle of the trophy to carry, grinning as if to say he understood anyway.

 

 


	23. Victor Valdes/Andres Iniesta - I could give you a massage?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andres has a communication problem and Victor has had enough

 

Andres had never been particularly good at communicating when he was in pain. He’d never lie to the physios or the doctors but when it came to everyone else, he elected to nobly suffer in silence.

 

Victor hated it.

 

He had to get inordinately good at reading Andres (which wasn’t very hard, because he paid more attention to Andres than he did to anyone else) and eventually realized that if he just persisted in asking, Andres would eventually get annoyed about it and tell him.

 

“Does your back hurt?” This was the third time he was asking. Andres kept wincing and adjusting his position on the bed, and he’d stuffed a pillow behind his back, which he usually did when his growing pains were causing him trouble.

 

“No, I’m fine.” You wouldn’t think it, but Andres was stubborn as hell.

 

“Are you sure?” That was fine. Victor was persistent.

 

“Yes, Victor, it hurts, okay?” There it was. Andres was openly frowning at him now, annoyed tone entering his voice. Victor privately thought it was absolutely adorable. “There’s nothing the physios can do about it. I’m just supposed to sit and wait it out.”

 

His voice went from annoyed to plaintive and Victor frowned, worried. If there was one thing he hated, it was Andres in pain (the second was public speaking, the third, losing).

 

“Ah…I could give you a massage if you want?” It flew out of his mouth without thinking, but Victor immediately decided it was the best idea. His mom always said he was good at backrubs, how much harder could a massage be?

 

“You…what?” Immediately, Andres was as red as the tomatoes they had for dinner. A fever from the pain, maybe? Victor was even more determined to help now.

 

“A massage! It’ll help relax your muscles.”

 

“Um…”

 

“Please, Andres,” Victor softened his voice, “let me help?”

 

“Right…massage, okay,” Andres finally said and Victor frowned at the weird catch in his voice. “How do we do this?”

 

In the end, they decided that it would be best if Andres were lying on his stomach, Victor straddling his thighs. The shirt even came off with minimal resistance; Andres seemed resigned to his fate.

 

It’s not until Andres was lying shirtless on his stomach in front of him that Victor realized he may be in trouble. The expanse of unmarked skin stretching in front of him, Andres’s muscles contracting beneath his skin, the little scar on his left shoulder that made Victor get his first red card…

 

He was in serious trouble.

 

Victor’s hands are big enough to cover the whole expanse of Andres’s shoulderblades and when he starts pressing and kneading, Andres lets out a big sigh and relaxes. Victor works in silence for the most part, convincing himself that his face doesn’t flame red whenever Andres lets out a moan.

 

Victor lasts up until the end of the backrub, but when he’s done he makes his excuses and disappears into the bathroom before Andres can even open his eyes or thank him.

 

He spends a lot longer in there than usual.

 

 


	24. Rafinha/Ter Stegen - Skinny dipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why does Marc-Andre let these things happen to him

 

“Are you absolutely certain this is a good idea?” Marc-Andre asks, shimmying awkwardly out of his sweater. “We could possibly be arrested for indecent exposure.”

 

Rafinha just laughs, his underwear hitting the wooden deck with a muted thump. Marc-Andre can feel the tips of his ears warming up. It’s not that he’s never seen Rafinha naked; they share a locker room after all. But it feels different here, with just the two of them, the only thing around them the muted sound of waves crashing against the shore, distant traffic and Rafinha’s laughter disappearing into the warm night air.

 

“You worry too much,” Rafinha says, taking a running start and hitting the water in a graceful arc. For a moment, it’s too quiet. Rafinha breaks the water with a gasp, immediately dissolving into giggles. “The water is great!”

 

It’s mid-May and the water is probably not actually great. Marc-Andre unbuttons his pants anyway.

 

The water is predictably freezing, but it feels nice against his skin. Marc-Andre blinks the water from his eyes to catch sight of Rafinha watching him, uncharacteristically serious. The moon is full and it lights up his skin, but his eyes are as deep and dark as the ocean. There are streetlights on the beach and people probably nearby, but it doesn’t feel like it.

 

Rafinha swims closer, close enough that Marc-Andre can feel their legs brushing against each other as they kick to stay afloat.

 

“Now do you admit it’s a good idea?” Rafinha asks, his voice full of laughter that has him reaching out to tangle their fingers together.

 

“I’m not admitting anything. You’ll gloat about it for three months.” 

 

Rafinha snorts, then moves, fast like a shark, to press his lips against Marc-Andre’s. He backs off quickly, but Marc-Andre follows, presses them closer, lets the waves roll them in their own rhythm.

 

“It was the best idea.”

 

 


	25. Sergi Roberto/Andres Iniesta - aro!Sergi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergi Roberto doesn't have time for your rom-com bullshit

 

Sergi Roberto doesn’t really do love. He does hook-ups, sure, quick sweaty things behind locker rooms after a game or soft sweet lovemaking in his apartment. They all end the same way; a kiss on the cheek and a promise dissolving into thin air the second he turns away. 

 

“Did you even take her on a date this time?” Bartra asks and rolls his eyes as Sergi shrugs. Marc likes dates, likes wooing women that are usually much too smart for him, only to inevitably end up broken-hearted and crying on Muni’s shoulder when they figure that out and leave him. He looks gross and sniffly, and Sergi pats his back while he binge eats citrus sorbet. 

 

He’s not a romantic, like Marc. In fact, most of the romantic movies that they watch at  _La Masia_ (it’s supposed to be a secret but the trainers come too and usually sob the loudest. it’s a weird place.) make him a bit uncomfortable, but mostly he just thinks they’re stupid. All that effort, just to kiss at the end? He’ll pass, thanks.

 

(Luckily he’s been relegated to handing Marc and Rafinha tissues so they don’t cover the room with snot. Watching them is a lot more fascinating than the movie, because Thiago usually tries to shush them, only for it to start an argument. This inevitably leads to Thiago apologizing, because he’s never been good at dealing with his little brother upset and Rafa looking constipated, because he wants to keep arguing, but at the same time wants his brother to be happy. Sergi would say he wasn’t jealous of their relationship, but pretty much everyone is, so it’s fine.)

 

For some reason, crushes are a favorite topic of conversation in the locker rooms. Sergi’s learned to deal with it by just naming the first attractive famous woman that comes to mind, a newscaster or an actress, and then subtly changing the conversation to something else. By the next conversation he’s already forgotten who he’s named the previous time, which thankfully no one seems to notice. Muni gives him some worried looks, but never tries to call him out on it, because he’s a sweetheart. 

 

Still, none of them really lose sight of where they’re going. First team is the goal, for all of them. Everything else is just a distraction. Marc always tells him that he doesn’t take time to savour a relationship, but Sergi can be patient if he wants too. 

 

When it finally comes it’s almost anti-climactic. Almost, because seeing his name on the list for first team training is still a damn good feeling, even if it causes a great big ball of nervousness to form in the pit of his stomach. He double checks that he’s even wearing a shirt when he leaves the house.

 

At training he’s welcomed with open arms and that makes it marginally easier. He’s 18 and playing with giants, and Xavi nudges his side with a conspiratory smile, while Pique clumsily pats his curls and calls him ‘little bro’. But it’s Iniesta, who takes his hand in a strong grip, then waves him over so they’re paired up at stretching.

 

He’s more talkative that Sergi expected, asking after the ins and outs at  _La Masia_ , talking about wines like he expects Sergi to know about them (Sergi does. He’s from Reus, after all, wine is in his blood). By the end of it, Sergi feels warm and breathless, and it’s not just because of training.

 

“You realize you’ve spent the last 15 minutes talking about Andres Iniesta, right?” Thiago asks him about half an hour into his excited report.

 

“Ohhhh, does Sergi have A CRUSH?” Jona perks up from where he’s sprawled all over Rafinha, sending the roomful of teenage footballers into excited conversation.

 

“It’s not like that!” Sergi tries to get himself heard over the bustle. “I just admire him, that’s all.”

 

“You think he’s handsome!” which yeah, he does, Andres is very handsome, Sergi wouldn’t exactly kick him out of bed, but that doesn’t mean he has a crush. However, he’d love to talk to him more, learn from him, maybe tell him about the family recipe for his mother’s wine sauce. Nothing wrong with that.

 

Marc already looks like he’s about to plan his wedding, so Sergi hastily changes the conversation to something else. The others would probably help.

 

He doesn’t get to see Andres that much for the next few years. He only gets sporadic chances to play for the first team, and trains with them sometimes, but mostly warms up with Marc or Muni or whichever familiar face is there. 

 

Mostly, he and Andres talk about wine. Sergi grows bold enough to tease him about building a vineyard in throwing distance of Madrid. “Don’t you know Catalan soil grows the most beautiful grapevines?” he says, bares his throat in a way he knows draws attention to the long line of his neck, smiles when he sees Andres blush.

 

“The first bottles are ready, why don’t you give me your expert opinion?” Andres asks, and that’s how Sergi finds himself in front of his apartment, wearing a perfectly pressed white button-up and his nicest underwear.

 

They tip into bed a few hours later, and Sergi lets himself return kisses that taste of excellent wine, finds buttons with confident fingers that don’t betray his tipsiness. He lays on soft bed sheets after with a content smile and listens to Andres talk about the perfect mid-range pass.

 

In the morning, he presses a kiss to his cheek and doesn’t make any promises. He gets a bottle of wine for the road and a standing invitation to visit.

 

It’s really good wine.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. headcanoning Sergi Roberto as aromantic is surprisingly fun   
> 2\. Sergi is from Reus, which according to wikipedia has “always been an important producer of wines and spirits.” which could mean anything at all, but I chose to interpret it as him being some sort of wine savant  
> 3\. Andres has his own vineyard, which is in fact a few kilometers from Madrid. TSK.


	26. Ter Stegen/Neymar - Quidditch rivalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a weakness for Hogwarts AUs

 

A lot of people were surprised when they first met Neymar. The yellow and black in his tie seemed to contradict his loud demeanor and his shock of color-changing hair such a violation of the dress code that Professor McGonagall didn’t even register it anymore. He was loud and told bad jokes in Charms class, but apparently he also came across as shy on group projects and studied in the library every Friday night. 

 

Honestly, Ter Stegen could care less about any of that. What he cared about was that Neymar currently had the Quaffle in his hands, weighting it gingerly, the yellow embroidery on his Quidditch uniform catching the sunlight. Ter Stegen had three big goal rings behind him and he was very determined to keep them empty today. No time for distractions.

 

_“Ladies and Gentlemen, Non-Binaries and Non-Conforming, Giant Squids and Giant Giants, welcome to the last match of this year’s Hogwart’s Quidditch Cup! We’ve got a real treat for you today, as the undefeated Ravenclaw team faces the frisky Hufflepuffs determined to upset their plans…”_

 

As always, there’s commentary as the stands fill up with spectators. Ter Stegen tunes it out with a practiced air, nodding at Xavi to let him know he’d received the signal for the first play.

 

“Hey, Ter Stegen!” Neymar yells across the pitch. “I’m coming for you! I’ll make sure to throw so many balls past you, it’ll make up for the ones you don’t have!”

 

Ter Stegen raises an unimpressed eyebrow as the Hufflepuff chasers start cracking up, exchanging a glance with Masche, who casually moves his bat so it’s more visible.

 

_“It seems like Neymar Jr. has already started flirting with the opposing keeper. Very obsessed with balls, that boy.” “Jordan, control yourself!” “Sorry, Professor McGonagall.”_

 

The Hufflepuffs shut up quickly, especially when Madame Hooch flies in the middle to blow her whistle for the start.

 

As the game begins, Ter Stegen’s mind narrows down to his goal rings and the space around them. It’s a grueling match, the relentless Ravenclaws surprised again and again by Hufflepuffs’ bag of tricks. The diminutive Iniesta leads the Hufflepuff Chasters into formation, Dani crosses and Neymar finishes, except so far, Ter Stegen’s been steadily blocking his shots on goal for the past 45 minutes. Neymar’s annoyance as he flies past brings him joy, but he doesn’t let it show on his face.

 

This goes on for a few more minutes before something strange happens; Neymar straightens his broom into a full on sprint towards Ter Stegen, even though he doesn’t have the Quaffle in his hands and the play is happening on the other half of the pitch. Ter Stegen fortifies himself, ready for some sort of trick play.

 

Instead, Neymar barrels full speed into him, their brooms tangle and they both spiral to the ground in free fall. A second later, a Bludger bursts into the space where Ter Stegen’s head had been only a moment ago.

 

The next few seconds are a mess of muted sound and the air whipping past his face. Ter Stegen manages to move the handle of his broom just a little, slowing their descent, but they still hit the ground hard, Ter Stegen’s bulk shielding Neymar from the impact.

 

 

*

 

 

The next time he wakes up, it’s to blink up at the Infirmary ceiling, with no idea what time it is.

 

“Good, you’re awake,” he hears a voice coming from his left. His body feels weird, a little bit disconnected and he absent-mindedly wonders how many bones he’s had to regrow this time. After a moment, he manages to commandeer his neck muscles enough to turn his head, only to be confronted with Neymar, stretched out on the other bunk. “I was getting bored.”

 

“Thanks for saving my life,” Ter Stegen manages to say, “but could you do it in a less violent way next time? I can barely feel my legs.”

 

“Oh yeah sure, next time when your life is in danger from a bloodthirsty Bludger, I’ll make sure to give you a little wave,” Neymar says, but he’s grinning and Ter Stegen tentatively grins back. “Way to be grateful, asshole.”

 

“Again with the insults,” Ter Stegen rolls his eyes and immediately regrets because it makes the room spin weirdly. “How did you even spot it anyway? You should have been back in defence.”

 

“Dani always warned me about paying too much attention to the Ravenclaw keeper,” Neymar snorts. “Who knew it’d be useful one day?”

 

“You pay attention to me?” Ter Stegen is genuinely puzzled by this revelation, especially since it makes Neymar blush and look away.

 

“Since Third year,” Neymar says quietly. “You saved all my shots and I didn’t know if I wanted to strangle you or climb you like a tree.” His hands fly up to cover his mouth like he’s surprised what’s coming out of it.

 

“Well, you could have at least asked me to Hogsmeade first,” is all Ter Stegen manages to say, feeling slightly bemused.

 

This is the moment that Madame Pomfrey chooses to bustle in, her white skirts catching her strides dramatically.

 

“Well, Mr. Da Silva Santos, the side effect of the Musclegrow potion should be wearing off right about now. Hopefully,” she glances sideways at Ter Stegen “you’ve managed to not let lose some uncomfortable truths.”

 

 _Musclegrow Potion,_  Ter Stegen thinks back to his notes,  _much like its name advertises, it’s used to grow or straighten damaged muscles and tissue. It also shares several ingredients with the Truth Serum, accounting for its unfortunate side effects._

 

Ter Stegen looks away as the nurse starts unwinding Neymar’s bandages, revealing several centimeters of dark unmarred skin. Quietly, he re-evaluates everything he knows about him, weighting the pros and cons. By the time Neymar hops off the bed, declared fit to leave, Ter Stegen has made a decision.

 

“Hey,” he says and Neymar stops, his hand frozen on the doorknob. Madame Pomfrey looks very engaged in her tinctures so Ter Stegen takes a chance. “You’re into football, right?”

 

Neymar whips around to stare at him.

 

“Yeah, how did you know?” he grins brightly and Ter Stegen feels his brain momentarily blank. “I still follow Santos, my dad records me matches on holodisc!”

 

“Well, you should show them to me sometime, if you want?” Ter Stegen is probably tomato red right now, but he can’t help if his complexion doesn’t exactly lend itself to subtlety.

 

“Like…next week at Hogsmeade?” Neymar asks, and his grins dims into something smaller, but no less pleased.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice,” Ter Stegen smiles back.

 

They’d have stayed like that for a while, smiling like idiots at each other, if Madame Pomfrey hadn’t cleared her throat meaningfully and sent Neymar scurrying off.

 

“Well,” she said, brandishing several vile-looking potions vials, “we better make you as healthy as possible Mr. Ter Stegen, so you’ll be ready for your date.”

 

Ter Stegen sighed, but opened his mouth obligingly, wondering if it would be weird to show up on a date with his Mönchengladbach shirt under his robes.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Neymar is a Hufflepuff, along with Dani and Andres. Ter Stegen is in Ravenclaw with Mache and Xavi (I usually sort Xavi into Slytherin, but for the purposed of this story lets say Ravenclaw) 
> 
> 2\. Neymar is a half-blood, his mother is from an old Wizarding family and met his father when she returned home to Brazil after she graduated from Hogwarts. His father was still a football player and his mother played Quidditch at school. His father sends him recorded matches every week.   
> Ter Stegen is also a half-blood. His father is a Wizard and his mother a Muggle. She’s the soccer fan and she sends him detailed hand-written match reports when she can.
> 
> 3\. Hogwarts has an universal translator spell cast over its grounds since it’s started to be more inclusive to students from all over the world.
> 
> 4\. I have no idea on the timeline here. Let’s pretend that Lee Jordan had a kid early, with the same flare for commentary.
> 
> 5\. When they meet up for their first date they spend four hours talking about football. When he walks him to the castle after, Ter Stegen bends down to kiss Neymar’s cheek. Neymar then drags him into a broom closet and they make-out for the next half hour
> 
> 6\. Their second date they spend three hours making out. They talk about football when they pause for breath.
> 
> 7\. For their third date, Neymar brings a football.


	27. Neymar/Zlatan Ibrahimovic - Hey Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zlatan is glaring at Leo. In fact, Zlatan has been glaring at everyone all night

 

They’ve been at this charity even for what seems like hours and the current speaker has just gotten into the swing of things which means it’s likeley they’ll be there for a few hours more. Neymar is bored, even sitting next to Leo, who he usually thinks is the most interesting person on the planet.

 

“Zlatan is glaring at me,” Leo leaned in to whisper into Neymar’s ear.

 

Neymar frowned in response but when he tried to turn around, Leo grabbed his hand and pulled him back.

 

“You can’t just look!” Leo whispered furiously and loudly enough that Dani, who was sitting on the other side of Neymar, got interested, consequently pressing against him to listen in on their conversation.

 

He’d seen Zlatan come in, tall and regal in a suit and tie, sneering at reporters flocking out of his way in droves. Their eyes had met but Zlatan gave no indication of acknowledging him, so Neymar moved on, trying not to let his smile slip. 

 

Zlatan ignored him plenty of times. Neymar was Fine with it.

 

“Well, how will you know if he’s glaring if you don’t look? Besides, i thought he liked you,” Neymar pointed out in what he thought was a reasonable tone. Zlatan was harmless. Most of the time. Unless you asked.

 

“I though he did too!” Leo looked increasingly panicked.

 

“Maybe he’s glaring at me?” Neymar suggested, trying to think back on what he could have done to piss Zlatan off since they’d last seen each other. Zlatan seemed pretty pleased by their last encounter, but you could never seem to tell with him, he was bothered by the strangest things and completely unbothered by some rational ones. It was frustrating.

 

The speaker finished his impassioned speech, banging on the podium for good measure, before being escorted off the stage by a security guard. As soon as the organizers said their goodbye, Leo gripped his and Dani’s hands and tugged them out of the area, apparently so he could avoid an undoubtedly enraged Zlatan who was sitting in the middle of the aisle and would have to wait on all the gross people to get out of his way.

 

The next few hours were an exercise in Neymar’s patience. The big hall made it easier to avoid Zlatan, at least in theory. Except Zlatan seemed to be everywhere Neymar looked, glaring at people Neymar spoke to until they all turned tail and ran. On the plus side, that meant that for once he had time to eat the pastries in peace, Zlatan’s gaze keeping away any officials that wanted to speak to him about yet another urgent matter. 

 

Zlatan persisted in ignoring him whenever their eyes met, pretending to talk to an increasingly bored Maxwell. And Neymar wasn’t about to walk up to him like Poker did to sausage. He had some pride, at least.

 

In the end, it was Maxwell who’d had enough. At one point, when Zlatan attempted to kick his coffee out of his hands to get his attention, he grabbed at his heel and dragged him across the floor to where Neymar was standing, much to everyone’s horror. Zlatan looked ready to murder him, but apparently Maxwell was just too used to constant danger.

 

“You,” he pointed at Zlatan, “sort your shit out and use your words for once. And you,” this time he pointed to Neymar, “I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

 

Then he stomped off into the crowd, leaving everyone in stunned silence.

 

A murderous Zlatan was enough to convince the onlookers to go about their business and conversation restarted around them, albeit in a more nervous fashion. The awkwardness between them persisted.

 

“That shirt makes you look like a slut!” Zlatan finally burst out and that’s about when Neymar had enough, anger burning through his vein like wildfire.

 

“Now, listen here,” he started in a furious whisper, walking right up into Zlatan’s space. It was less effective than he hoped because he still came up to nipple level and Zlatan had to bend down to hear him. “who the fuck do you think you are-”

 

“I’m Zlatan!” Zlatan roared back. “And you’re walking around here with all your skin on display for everyone to lust over and you’ve found the only pair of pants that make your ass look like it exists, and all these shitheads look at you like they want you to-”

 

The hall around them was quiet. Or maybe it was Neymar’s brain which had gone completely blank, except for a small voice that was getting stronger and stronger as he watched Zlatan’s furious face.

 

“You’re…jealous. You’re actually jealous,” Neymar would be embarrassed at how delighted his voice sounded if he weren’t, you know, delighted. Zlatan frowned.

 

“Not here,“ he said, reaching out to lay a proprietary hand on Neymar’s shoulder, steering him out through the crowd. His thumb was laid over Neymar’s pulse point and he shivered despite himself. Zlatan must have felt it  because he swept his thumb over it in an unconsciously comforting gesture.

 

That was…not new, exactly. But Neymar was usually a lot more naked and a lot further gone when Zlatan finally touched him like that.

 

Zlatan steered him into an empty adjacent room, full of unused chairs and sunk in half-darkness. Neymar would have been afraid, but the scariest thing in the room was Zlatan. And he wasn’t afraid of Zlatan, not really. Not anymore. Instead residue anger rolled up through him, as well as anticipation that had him uncomfortable in his pants (despite what Zlatan said, the weren’t made to accentuate his ass).

 

“What the fuck was that out there?” he said when it became apparent that Zlatan was too busy staring out the window. “You’ve been glaring at me all night because you’re jealous of the people I hang out with and then you pull that little display?”

 

“…”

 

“Zlatan?”

 

He always forgot what a force of nature Zlatan was when he got going. One second, Neymar was ready to fight, the next he was pressed up against the wall, legs locked around Zlatan’s waist, hands scrambling for purchase on his suit. 

 

Zlatan always kissed with a purpose, firm but soft enough that Neymar melted every time. 

 

Half an hour later, Neymar’s pants were quite possibly ruined and he was feeling more than a bit unsteady on his feet. Zlatan hadn’t moved from where he was caging him against the wall. Neymar had his face pressed against Zlatan’s shirt, the buttons probably leaving marks on his face, still trying to catch his breath when Zlatan finally spoke.

 

“Zlatan is sorry.” and Neymar’s legs really went out this time and he’d have fallen on his ass if Zlatan’s big hands weren’t there to steady him. 

 

That was the closest to a love confession he’d ever get from Zlatan Ibrahimović and fuck, he didn’t know what the fuck he was getting himself into.

 

“Okay,” he whispered against Zlatan’s shirt. “Okay.”

 

Zlatan’s fingers carded through his hair, then pulled a little, and settled, warm and possessive against his skull.

 

 


	28. Andres Iniesta and Ronaldinho - Teenage kicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek into the head of Andres Iniesta, age 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this picture](http://emiliricart.tumblr.com/post/121988015932)

 

The year is 2003. The night is a series of snapshots in Andres’s head. The helpless grimace on Puyol’s face. Xavi’s brows drawn together in worry, searching for space. Rijkaard‘s hands clenched into fists at his sides. Madrid in white shirts, patting each other on the back. And in the background, louder than his heart, the whistles rain down from the Camp Nou stands.

 

FC Barcelona slides to 12th place in the Liga.

 

Something’s got to give.

 

Next week, they play Espanyol. Away, if it weren’t difficult enough. Andres starts the game, watches from the corner of his eye as Ronaldinho warms up for the first time since his injury in November. He pulls Xavi into a hug when he passes, whispers a set of last minute instructions that make Xavi stand taller when he turns away. The wind catches on strands of long black hair and he grins at Andres when he catches him staring.

 

The whistle blows and the game changes. Espanyol score first, but this time, no one hears the whistles. Ronaldinho is everywhere, snatching the ball back over and over, creating space where there was none. Espanyol’s defenders are helpless against him, fouling him when they can’t slow him down.

 

Then, it happens. The ball is with Andres and he looks up, catches a smudge of blaugrana between the white and blue. He passes the ball, easy as ever. Ronaldinho catches it on his head, tucks it neatly past the keeper and Andes is running towards him before the ball even hits the back of the net. He slams into him full force, muffling his laugh into his hair, and then Xavi is there and Patrick and Gio, celebrating. Ronaldinho catches him when he pulls away, tugs him into another hug. “Just keep passing to me,” he whispers into his ear, “we’ll win this, just keep passing to me.”

 

They win. 

 

Ronaldinho pats his head on their way to the bus, says “Hey, I told you so!” and doesn’t wait for Andres’s answer before he disappears. 

 

A few days later, they get put into the same team for a five-a-side practice match for the first time. Ronaldinho claps him on the back, leans in close to say “With you and me together, Andresito, we’ve already won!”, before dancing away to settle into position. 

 

No one calls him Andresito, except for Xavi, who’s known him forever. It rankles a bit, but it passes as he watches Ronaldinho bounce on his feet, tracking the ball with his eyes while the trainer carries it onto the field. He’s grinning, wide and excited, full of wild energy, and Andres feels it in his feet, the anticipation, the hunger. It’s just how Ronaldinho is, a joy that’s irresistable. 

 

They win. 

 

Ronaldinho grins at him on their way to the dressing room, and Andres answers with a shy one of his own. 

 

The year is 2004. They win and they don’t stop winning.

 

He rooms with Ronaldinho somewhere in Mallorca, after Victor stays home with a hand injury. It’s strange, but he’s never considered the thought of Ronaldinho sleeping at all, even though he must be. There’s just so much constant energy in him, bouncing in his chair, his feet tapping like there’s something missing from them and his eyes darting all over the room. One second he’s joking with Deco, the other he’s got his elbow on Gio’s head, fighting him off with the other.

 

Their hotel room is a disaster area, which isn’t unfamiliar to Andres, but Dinho’s is a controlled kind of chaos where his underwear is hung on the lamp and still somehow looks exactly like it belongs. And he’s a surprisingly considerate roommate, who asks Andres if he wants to take the shower first and which bed he prefers. 

 

Andres goes to bed early, watching from his blankets as Dinho pulls out a brush from his luggage, settling at the foot of the bed to brush his hair. It’s the first time Andres has ever seen him so still. Maybe that’s what makes him braver.

 

“Hey Dinho?” he asks quietly. “Why do you call me Andresito?”

 

Ronaldinho looks up, his hands slowing. He frowns for a moment before speaking.

 

“So we can be Ronaldinho and Andresito,” he says, “partners, like in the Wild West” he mimes shooting a gun with his hairbrush. “You and me, we’re the same. They’ll underestimate us because of our name or our size, but we’ll win anyway. You know?”

 

Andres nods slowly, even though he doesn’t understand at all. Looking at the two of them, Ronaldinho and his sunny grin, and Andres with his serious face, they couldn’t be any more different if they tried. Ronaldinho goes back to brushing his hair, humming something quiet under his breath and Andres’s eyes slip shut. 

 

The next morning, Ronaldinho is up before him. He never does get to see him sleep.

 

After six years of nothing, they win La Liga. 

 

There’s celebrations after, a bus waiting to take them through the city dressed in red and blue for the day. It’s hard to say if there was someone who whistled in the sea of smiling faces, but it doesn’t actually seem to matter. They’re happy. 

 

There’s a moment where Andres gets pressed into Ronaldinho’s side to avoid the conga line lead by a very happy Xavi. Little Lionel Messi has somehow been caught in it too and he’s looking around wide-eyed for someone to save him. Andres would have, but Ronaldinho’s arms come around him to tug him into a hug and he briefly forgets about anything else except familiar laughter from the chest he’s pressed up against.

 

“I told you, didn’t I?” Ronaldinho says. “I told you we’d win.”

 

“I just kept passing to you,” Andres looks up, trying to look serious even though a smile is tugging at his lips, “like you told me to.”

 

“Eh,” Ronaldinho tilts his head and grins, “you passed a few to Samuel too. It’s okay, I forgive you.”

 

He leans down to press a kiss to Andres’s cheek, before moving away to haul back Deco, who’s leaning too far over the bus railing, waving at the fans.

 

The year is 2005 and they’ve just won La Liga, and all Andres hears is laughter.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Joan Laporta and his group took over FC Barcelona in 2003. His first big signing was Ronaldinho, from PSG and Frank Rijkaard took over as coach. Midway through the season Barcelona slipped to 12th place in the rankings and things weren’t looking up. Then in December, Ronaldinho came back from injury to play against Espanyol. He scored his third goal in a Barca shirt off Andres’s pass in that game, which we went on to win 3:1. We ended up coming second that season, behind Valencia, and Ronaldinho was the top scorer.  
> 2\. Season 2004-05 was a big one. We won La Liga after six years of no titles. Samuel Eto’o was top scorer and he’s the Samuel referred to above. Also a part of the 2004-05 squad were Deco and little baby Lionel Messi who made his debut that year.  
> 3\. Victor didn’t injure his hand in 2004. I made that up so I could describe Dinho’s sleeping habits.  
> 4\. I don’t know if there was a conga line in the celebrations that season, but if it was, Xavi probably led it.


	29. Neymes - Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two superstars in a hotel room after the Copa America game against Colombia

 

After the press work is done and he’s changed from his kit and into his usual clothes, James waves off his teammates and tells the coach he’ll find his own way home. The mister is suspicious, but he nods anyway. Sometimes James’s reputation goes his way.

 

There’s a number in his phone that he hardly ever uses. This isn’t that unusual; he’s got a lot of numbers like that. Their lives are full of temporary people. But this number doesn’t have a name in the subject, just a frowning emoji face.

 

Neymar chose it for himself. “It’s like we’re undercover agents,” he’d said, never mind the fact that James told him a hundred times that no one would protest their communication.

 

He sends a message to that number now, ‘where are you?’ in Portuguese even though he’s rusty. ‘I’ll send someone to get you’ Neymar answers in Spanish.

 

An official looking woman steps in his path and gestures for him to follow. She’s got a Brazil flag pin, so he trusts that she’s the one Ney was talking about. She guides him up some stairs (a surprising effort now that his legs are cramping up from the game) and to a room.

 

Neymar is already waiting, sitting on a couch with his legs drawn up to his chest, scrolling through something on his phone. The pale light from the screen lights up his face, the dark shadows under his eyes standing out more prominently. He looks older when he’s not smiling. Exhausted.

 

James understands the sentiment well enough.

 

“You look cheery,” he says and Neymar’s head snaps up, startled. After a moment he smiles and it smooths out some of the lines on his face. 

 

“Red isn’t exactly my favorite color.” Neymar gestures for him to sit and James does, drops onto the couch next to him and drapes his arm over the armrest.

 

“No one likes to see it,” James says noncommittally. 

 

“I doubt you have,” Neymar grins playfully, “saint James!”

 

“You of all people should know not to read what the papers say.”

 

“Oh, so you can lose your temper then? What happened, did your opponent step on a puppy?” It’s familiar teasing, which is perhaps strange when they’d only ever met a few times. But then again, he and Neymar have always understood each other well.

 

“I may have tried to punch them…” James settles into the story, of when he was 12 or so and a lot less calm than he was now, and before long Neymar is laughing and chiming in with his own.

 

They make small talk, swap stories about growing up or about their children and the cute things they do. They don’t talk about the game. Slowly, Neymar unwinds, unraveling from his crouch into a more comfortable position, spread out on the couch with his head resting casually on James’s arm.

 

He grins up at James, his eyes shining, and that’s familiar too.

 

It’s hard to resist the urge to kiss him, so he doesn’t, leaning down to capture unresisting lips with his own. They kiss softly, close-mouthed and with no intent. Neymar’s beard scratches at his chin and their noses bump a few times.

 

Neymar’s phone goes off and interrupts them. The ringtone is some song that James vaguely recognizes. He frowns at the caller ID but answers anyway, patting James’s flank in apology.

 

“Dani? Yeah, I’m fine, just meeting a friend…Yeah, sure. Wait, how did you know?” Neymar’s speech is quicker in Portuguese, and harder to follow, but his face spreads out into a smile and James relaxes. “I’ll be careful. Well, he’s not exactly  _madridista_  right now, is he?”

 

The exchange goes one for a few more seconds, before Neymar says goodbye and breaks it off.

 

“Sorry,” he says, “he’s worse than my father sometimes.”

 

“He’s just worried,” James says quietly. “It’s okay. Do you need to go?”

 

“Not for a few hours. Unless,” Neymar hesitates, “do you need to leave? Is anyone expecting you?”

 

“Not for a few hours,” James answers, smiling. “Now, do you have some music on at least one of those phones?”

 

Neymar’s face immediately lights up. “I might. Why do you ask?”

 

“Let’s dance then.”

 

In a few minutes the floor is cleared of the rug and coffee table and James is scrolling through Neymar’s playlist for something familiar. He finally decides on something reasonably slow to warm them up.

 

Neymar is a good dancer, but James is better, so he has no problem with letting him lead them across the makeshift dancefloor in increasingly complex steps. James presses them closer than the dance necessarily warrants but Neymar just laughs into his shoulder and doesn’t protest.

 

So, they dance, in an empty room in Chile, a Colombian and a Brazilian, just two boys trying to catch the same rhythm to music coming from shitty phone speakers, dropping the weight off their shoulders for a few golden hours.

 

 


	30. Skagger - genderbent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martina Skrtel and Dani Agger, a love story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written with [minah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/minah/pseuds/minah), who never gets tired of our headcanons. Special shoutout to [anemoi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi) for her encouragement.

Her name is Danielle and she comes to Liverpool Ladies from Copenhagen, to finally live out her dream of being a professional footballer. “Call me Dani,” she says the first time she gets introduced to the team, “Danielle is kind of a mouthful.”

  
  


Martina Skrtel is the first to step forward and offer a handshake. “I’ll be your new partner, Agger, so you better get in gear if you want to keep up.” She’s Dani’s height, but with more muscle mass, her hair shaved short and spiky. Dani likes her immediately.

  
  


Since the money isn’t too good they share house with a couple more players and Martina cooks and tries to take care of all of them. And Dani's room is right next to Martina's and they all hang out on the living room anyway, but when it gets late and everyone else goes to sleep they're still up talking, about football and their lives and dreams.

  
  


There'll be no chants for them, no fame. Because fuck, is it hard to be a female footballer. But they'd love it. Love playing the game and love playing with each other.

  
  


Still, Dani is a frequent source of confusion for Martina.

  
  


"You take care of everyone," Danny says to her with a crooked smile, cutting the onions for the stew Martina is making.

  
  


"Not you, thought," Martina says, and the frustration in her voice is evident.

  
  


"Yeah, well," Dani shrugs and leans around her to put the onions into the pot. Her eyes are a little red and Martina leans to tear off a paper towel for her instinctively. "Who takes care of you then?"

  
  


Martina doesn’t really have an answer to that, so it’s a good thing that Phillipa Coutinho pops her head through the doorway and asks when dinner will be ready in strongly accented English.

  
  


There’s a whole host of things that frustrate her about Dani Agger. Like the fact that she seems to have total disregard for cold or the fact that they’re short a CB if she gets sick. Martina gets used to packing an extra pair of gloves for her. Or that she insists on checking over the cut on Martina’s forehead and calling over the medics, even though Martina is fine and can go on playing with her head bleeding, no problem. Or that she spends all her extra money on tattoos when she should be putting it in some sort of retirement fund.

  
  


Even if Martina has to admit that Dani’s tattoos are some of the most beautiful she’s ever seen. There’s rosary beads winding around under her breasts and the Vikings on her back have long braids instead of beards, because “Fuck, if I'll carry a man on my back for one second longer than I have to.” If Martina finds herself staring them for longer than usual as they change, it’s just because she’s appreciating artistic merit.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Winter comes and their heating is on and off as always. Dani insists Martina take the blanket and she does, because she picked up a thigh injury the previous game and is feeling too tired to argue. They only have the one blanket in the living room, this ugly old moth bitten thing that someone once brought over and didn't take with them when they left (probably Roberta Fowler) and now Dani will be cold where she is on the armchair and Martina doesn’t know what to do.

 

 

"Hey, get over here."

  
  


"Hm, what?"

  
  


"Dani, get over here, you tit, you're gonna get cold, I don't care if you're from Denmark." and that's how they end up cuddling up in front of their crap TV. Dani falls asleep with her head on Martina's shoulder.

  
  


Alexandra Alonso takes a pic of them with her shit phone the next morning, because Alexandra Alonso is a little shit that knows how to hoard blackmail material.

  
  


Danny aka Studge wakes them up eventually because they're somehow sitting on her best pair of pants and she wants to look good for her date tonight.

  
  
  


(the story of Jordan Henderson, Liverpool male team vice captain and Studge, Liverpool Ladies forward isn’t as epic, but cute nonetheless. )

  
  


Alexandra Alonso is also kind of flirting with Steven Gerrard. Mostly Stevie stammers and blushes and generally makes an idiot of himself, while she watches him, calm and poised. And Alexandra likes to think she’s collected, but she fucking giggles, because Stevie has his smooth moments and he'd be able to pull one off. And then she'd write him her number at the end of the night to talk about football tactics. Which is funnily enough the thing they do talk about most often. Martina teases her because she gives the roughest tackles on the pitch, but with Stevie she 'punches' his shoulder.

  
  


"I bet you'd love some of Gerrard's passes eh?" the living room explodes with laughter. Alexandra wants to murder them all.

  
  


By far the most interesting character in the Ladies team is Jamie Carrager. The most foul-mouthed, tough Scouse lady you'll ever meet in your fucking life.

  
  


Her and Stevie grew up together. They’re really close and also fight a lot.

  
  


Or rather, she punches him in the solar plexus and he crumples on the floor begging for mercy.

  
  


"Cunt!"

  
  


"Asshole!"

  
  


"Bitch!"

  
  


"Wanker!"

  
  


"...I missed you Carra."

  
  


"Ye'r a lil tit, Stevie lad."

  
  


(Carra calls him Tit Head. Small Tit. Hairy Tit. Lame Tit. All variations of Tit.

  
  


“Cause yer face looks like a tit!” and then she falls over laughing.

  
  


When she becomes a commentator for Sky Sports and he announces he’s retiring, she calls him Legendary Tit.)

  
  


(Stevie is really embarrassed. “I can’t believe you called me a tit on the telly!”)

  
  


(He’s embarrassed, but not as much as that time when Daily Mail ran an article titled "Gerrard and Carrager: Secret Lovers?"

  
  


She kept calling him for weeks with "Hello lover, where's my wedding ring?"

  
  


or

  
  


"Hey cupcake, you gonna take me to dinner tonight?"

  
  


"...hamburgers?"

  
  


"You sure know how to treat your old lady huh?"

  
  


"CARRA, WE'RE NOT MARRIED!"

  
  


"WELL the papers say we are, so it must be true, now buy me a pair of shoes, you can be my sugar daddy"

  
  


"I AM NOT YOUR SUGAR DADDY"

  
  


"Bit louder love, I don't think they heard you in Manchester.")

  
  


Meanwhile, Martina is falling deeper and deeper, because Dani is just so wonderful and kind and beautiful and a really good footballer, and Martina wants to play with her forever. She could do without Dani getting herself injured all the time though.

  
  


“I like you fussing over me,” Dani grins at her. It makes the cut on her lip break open and start bleeding.

  
  


“Is that why you keep injuring yourself?” Martina is trying to keep a straight face, trying not to blush, but she’s cracking and they both know it.

  
  


“Nah, the artificial turf just hates me and those Arsenal ladies are tough. It’s a nice bonus though.”

  
  


And Martina...she’s had enough.

  
  


She sets her medical kit carefully on the counter and reaches out to brush her fingers gently against Dani’s bruised cheek, before leaning forward to press the softest of kisses against the cut on her bottom lip.

  
  


Then, she eases back, forcing herself to wait. Dani has her eyes closed, and when she opens them, Martina’s heart momentarily skips. Because she’s seen those grey eyes stormy after a loss and bright after a win, but she’s never seen this expression on Dani’s face, ever.

  
  


“Do I have a concussion?” Dani says and Martina frowns.

  
  


“Not that I know? The doctor said you shouldn’t. Do you feel sick?”

  
  


“No. I feel like you just kissed me. Which means that either I’m concussed or you’ve gotten a clue after all this time, and at this point the first one is much more likely.”

  
  


“Oh. Wait, got a clue? To what?”

  
  


“That I’ve been in love with you since I came here. Why are you not kissing me anymore?”

  
  


“I-I...because you’re injured?”

  
  


“That’s the lamest excuse you’ve ever given me, Martina Skrtel, get the fuck back here and kiss me proper.”

  
  


Martina kisses her again. Careful of her injuries. But then Dani kisses her back, presses in and wraps her arms around her, like she’s starving, like Martina will disappear and it seems impossible that they’ve wasted so much time without something so good.

  
  


Dani’s breasts press against her chest and she’s making these little hitching sounds, that are probably because of her busted cheek, but she’s brushing her fingers through Martina’s spikes and she doesn’t want to move, even though she should. She pulls back briefly to breathe, only for the air to be stolen right from her lungs because Dani is smiling at her so wide, it must be painful for her, it must be, but she just keeps smiling and Martina has to smile back.

  
  


There’s a crash behind them and they whip around to stare at the doorway, where what feels like half of their teammates are fallen over in a heap from where they’ve obviously been listening in and leaned too far. The culprit seems to be Pepa Reina, who is now groaning from under the pile of bodies.

  
  


“Congratulations!” Studge shouts when they manage to untangle. “We were just leaving,” she adds, grabbing onto a confused looking Phillipa when she spots them glaring. Alexandra isn’t far behind them, giving them a thumbs up as she backs out. Her phone is thankfully absent. Pepa hobbles out after her, leaving them thankfully alone again.

  
  


Martina drops her forehead to Dani’s shoulder from where they’re still tangled together and laughs hard enough that she cries.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


“So you two are finally together?”

  
  


“Yes, Carra. Do you think it’ll get us in trouble with the management?”

  
  


“Nah, don’t worry about it. Stevie bet me a fiver that you’d get together before Christmas, he’ll stand up for you if it comes down to it.”

  
  


“...Steven Gerrard is betting on my sex life.”

  
  


“Yep. He ships you.”

  
  


“Steven Gerrard. Legendary Stevie G. Betting on my sex life.”

  
  
“I’ll make him send you a cake or something, he’s a big shot now, he can afford it.”


	31. Ter Stegen/Rafinha - Congratulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafinha accidentally calls Ter Stegen to congratulate him on the Best Save win in the UEFA gala.
> 
> Features gross nicknames, Celia Sasic and Leo Messi's suits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little bit silly

 

 

 

 

Marc-Andre settles into the couch cushions, scrolling idly through the texts on his phone. The UEFA Gala is on in the background, full of fancy suits and dazzling dresses, in sharp contrast to his worn out sweatpants and an old Gladbach shirt. His phone has been chiming for hours, ever since the results of the vote have been made public, and it seems like everyone wants to congratulate him. It’s nice to be appreciated.

 

His phone buzzes again, this time with an accompanying melody and he frowns at the name that pops up on the display then presses the green button to accept the call. There’s a soft sound as it connects and then some muted voices along with the unmistakable sound of someone typing.

 

“Rafa?” he asks. “Hello? Are you there?”

 

“…Ter? Why are you calling me?” Rafa’s voice fills his ear and Marc-Andre sighs.

 

“You were the one who called me, doofus.”

 

“Oops? I’m sorry, I meant to send you a congratulations text and I must have called you instead.”

 

“It’s okay,” Marc-Andre shrugs, “it’s not like I was busy.”

 

“Are you telling me everyone’s left my favorite German all alone on his big day?” Rafa’s customary flirting is as embarrassing as ever and Marc-Andre ducks his head instinctively to cover up his blush. “That just won’t do. Good thing Rafa is here to rescue you from boredom, no?”

 

“Right, whatever you say,” Marc-Andre says, “and how many times have I told you not to call me Ter? It’s just a prefix, it doesn’t actually mean anything.”

 

“But your name is too long and we already have a Marc! I can’t call you Ter Stegen, that’s too impersonal and we’re friends. So my nickname for you is Ter.”

 

“You couldn’t have come up with a more original nickname?” Marc-Andre says, dryly.

 

“Would you prefer ‘darling’?” Rafa’s voice is suddenly an octave lower and almost sultry. Marc-Andre tugs on the collar of his shirt and wonders if the air condition suddenly stopped working.

 

“Rafael, no.”

 

“How about ‘babe’? Or ‘sugar’? Or maybe ‘cupcake’?”

 

“Have you been listening to Ivan on the phone again?”

 

“I could call you sunshine, it fits your hair.” Rafa says, before he’s interrupted by a female voice. Marc-Andre listens quietly, enunciates the words she’s saying to himself. ‘Who are you talking to?’

 

“Just Ter Stegen,” Rafa replies to her and Marc-Andre smiles to himself. He doesn’t understand what the woman says next, but she’s quiet after Rafa’s reply.

 

“My sister,” Rafa has probably turned back to the receiver, because his voice is suddenly loud enough that it makes him jump. “She says I’m not allowed to tease you, because you’ve just won an award. She says congratulations.”

 

“Well, your sister has better manners than you,” onscreen, the camera pans to Leo and Antonella, and the rest of the Barcelona delegation. They all look glamorous. “Do you have to go?”

 

“Not really. She needs to go do her homework anyway,” Rafa replies and Marc-Andre can hear him shifting. “Look at our delegation, they look fantastic. Leo’s chosen a more conservative look this year, I see.”

 

“It’s got a pattern on the back,” Marc-Andre says automatically. “He’s saving the more extravagant look for the Ballon d’Or.”

 

“…did he tell you that?” Rafa sounds like he thinks this is a totally legitimate thing to happen and Marc-Andre is never one to let an opportunity slide.

 

“Yeah, we talk every night before we go to sleep,” he answers, casual as can be.

 

“…really?” Rafa falls for it. Predictably. He sounds almost moody.

 

“Of course not. Even I know that time slot is reserved for Agüero.”

 

“You’re fucking with me,” Rafinha laughs. “Our big innocent German, hiding all of that mischief.”

 

“Gerard is taller than me,” Marc-Andre replies, calmly.

 

“But everyone knows Geri is a troublemaker. You’re hiding some deep waters there, Ter.”

 

“Don’t call me Ter.”

 

“Of course, pumpkin.”

 

“Rafa, I swear…”

 

They watch the rest of the gala together, trading comments back and forth. Marc-Andre is as red as a tomato for most of it, because Rafa never stops flirting, but he’s having a lot more fun than if he’d just watched it on his own.

 

Marc-Andre briefly fanboys over Celia Sasic as she receives her award.

 

“She’s such a good player; I wouldn’t like to defend against her. I met her at a charity event once, she’s so nice…”

 

“Marta is better,” mutters Rafinha, but Marc-Andre chooses to be the better man and ignore it.

 

They cheer together when Leo’s name gets announced and he goes up to receive his award and talk about the draw a bit longer, before falling into a comfortable silence.

 

“Hey, congratulations,” Rafinha says suddenly, “I completely forgot. You did a great job this season, I was glad to play by your side.”

 

He sounds so sincere that Marc-Andre is momentarily speechless in return.

 

“Thanks, Rafa,” he manages, “you too.”

 

“See you at training tomorrow then?”

 

“Sure, as always.”

 

“Okay. Goodnight, sweetcheeks.”

 

“Rafa, stop it or I’m telling Masche.”


	32. Ter Stegen/Rafinha - Sexting, kinda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so bad at smut, I'm so sorry, I just can't do it
> 
> Mo is Moritz Letner, Ter Stegen's teammate in the U21. The italics in the '' are texts.

 

 

 _‘Guess what I’m wearing right now?’_  Ter Stegen frowns at the text on his phone, carefully hiding it under the table. Around him, his U21 teammates are engaged in raucous conversation in between shoveling food in their mouths.

 

 _‘Nothing ;)’_  is the follow up message and Ter Stegen bangs his thigh really hard against the table as he tries to exit the messaging app quickly. He’s too late. Mo, who has been leaning over to ask him a question, draws back with a shocked look on his face.

 

“Are you SEXTING IN THE MIDDLE OF TEAM DINNER? MARC, THAT’S GROSS!” he says, loudly enough to get everyone’s attention, even the coach. Ter Stegen wants to die.

 

It takes him half an hour to convince the rest of the table that he was not in fact sexting with anyone but receiving important club information from a FC Barcelona official. In code.

_‘_

_I WAS HAVING DINNER WITH MY TEAMMATES_ ’ he sends Rafa when he’s safely in his hotel room. 

 

 _‘Oops’_  is all he gets back and Ter Stegen has another thought. 

 

 _‘Don’t touch my gloves’_  because Rafa has this bad habit of going through his stuff while Ter Stegen is away, and while he certainly doesn’t mind the sight of Rafa in his old Gladbach jersey, he doesn’t like anyone touching his goalkeeping equipment.

 

His phone buzzes half an hour later and Ter Stegen unlocks it, momentarily blinded by the light, to reveal a picture of Rafinha wearing his gloves with a huge grin on his face, and not, so it seems, much else. Ter Stegen’s first thought is “Wow.” his second is “How did he even take that picture??”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how he took that picture either. I'm just saying that you shouldn't underestimate the resourcefulness of Rafael Alcantara on a mission.


	33. Kunessi: Old Haunts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kunessi retirement fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for Mai, way back when I never thought I'd get to post stuff

 

They live quiet lives now.

 

They've got a house that's secluded, but not too far away from friends and family. They've got a dog and a cat, who aren't allowed in the bedroom, but they wake up with the bed overcrowded anyway.

 

Kun cooks. Leo loads the dishwasher after. Kun shamelessly watches his butt in old, stretched-out sweatpants.

 

They have a routine: after dinner they clean up, let the dog out and laugh at how unimpressed the cat looks at its antics. Sometimes they call Thiago or Mateo and sometimes they call Benja and sometimes they call all of them at the same time and they have Skype conference calls that leave them all howling with laughter. Their sons visit them often enough, usually in the summer or on birthdays. They've got their own families now. 

 

They look too young to be grandparents, but their knees and ankles are ancient, battered from tackles and falls. Sometimes they have to prop each other up so they can get up in the morning. Sometimes they stifle screams in each other's skin. 

 

It's still a small price to pay for a few decades of immortality.

 

After the phone calls they usually turn on a movie, cuddled up closely on the couch, the cat squeezed somewhere between them and the dog warming up their feet.

 

Or maybe there'll be a match on and they sit a small distance apart, because Kun yells and his elbows are sharp, and Leo has learned to dodge them, just like Kun has learnt not to comment on the naked longing on his face.

 

Leo doesn't let Kun fall asleep with the TV on anymore. He's read in a magazine that it's not healthy for a marriage. So he starts poking at Kun when he feels himself getting sleepy, until Kun relents and turns it off.

 

Leo drinks a glass of water, while Kun feeds the cat and talks to it in a baby voice.

 

They turn off the light in the kitchen.

 

Their bedroom is big, but overcrowded. Kun still hasn't learnt to tidy up and Leo isn’t any better. Cleaning up just takes up too much time away from being together.

 

Sometimes Kun will sneak up on him from behind, wrap his arms around Leo's middle and bury his face into his neck to press a kiss there. Sometimes he'll kiss him everywhere else too and they'll tumble into bed giggling like men half their age. But usually he'll reach down to peel Leo's clothes off carefully, help him put on the pajamas for no other reason than because he likes taking care of him.

 

Leo will turn the covers down and head into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Kun joins him not soon after, making a funny face in the mirror to make Leo laugh and spit toothpaste everywhere. They have towels with their initials on them but they use each other's anyway.

 

Kun sleeps on the right side of the bed to keep the weight off his ankle, and Leo sleeps on the left so he can comfortably pull Kun closer. It doesn't matter much anyway because they end up in the middle of the bed anyway, a mess of limbs and bodies, heartbeats perfectly on sync.

 

They kiss before they fall asleep, an easy brush of lips born from long familiarity. Sometimes Kun presses an extra kiss to Leo's cheek or Leo brushes his lips across Kun's forehead. Because they can.

 

Leo always falls asleep first. Kun listens to his breathing even out and offers up a prayer of thanks, right before Leo's heartbeat lulls him into sleep.

 

 

They stay like that till morning. Quiet and peaceful and together.

 


	34. Mumps boy - Neymessi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo visits Neymar when he's sick with mumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mina for telling me about the Compota de manzana. Can you imagine Luis Suarez in a flowery apron, making applesauce? It's a joy.
> 
> Many apologies to anon who waited over a month for this fic.

 

 

Neymar sighs and buries his head further in the soft fleece blanket. He’s commandeered the most comfortable couch in the house for his nap and bullied almost everyone else out. Rafaella was sitting on the armchair when he fell asleep, scrolling through an iPad, but she’s gone now too. Probably has better things to do then to hang with her sickly big brother. He sighs.

 

Fucking Mumps, of all things.

 

The TV is on, but muted, and watching it makes his head hurt. He’s sweaty and feverish, and his whole body feels swollen and awkward, like it’s not even his.

 

There’s a knock on the door and he looks up, hoping it might be his mom, who’d stroke his hair from his forehead and bring him a glass of water. Instead, the door creaks open a bit and Leo’s head peeks through the opening.

 

“Hello,” he says, smiling at Neymar like it’s a perfectly ordinary thing for him to be there.

 

Neymar blinks.

 

“I brought you some applesauce,” Leo tries again. “Your mom said you haven’t had lunch yet.”

 

Neymar reaches up instinctively to feel his forehead, because chances are high that this is actually an incredibly strange fever dream.

 

“You brought me applesauce,” Neymar sits up, trying to surreptitiously wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth. “Are you vaccinated?”

 

Getting Barcelona’s star player sick with mumps wasn’t something he wanted on his resume. He accepts the bowl and spoon and tries not to stare as Leo settles down next to him on the couch.

 

“I am,” Leo says. “Not that it helped you in any way. Your face looks huge.”

 

Neymar snorts and brings the spoon to his lips. Swallowing is uncomfortable, but the applesauce is nice and still warm. He hadn’t realized he was hungry, but he must have been.

 

“It’s good,” he says, and Leo shrugs in response.

 

“Luis made it. Apparently, that’s what you eat when you’re sick in Uruguay. I figured he wouldn’t poison you.”

 

“Suarez? Luis Suarez made me applesauce?” This has to be a fever dream. It just has to. Neymar’s life has been getting progressively weirder since he came to FC Barcelona, but this was just too much.

 

“He insisted after I said I was coming to see you,” Leo says. “Everyone sends their regards.”

 

Neymar scoffs into his applesauce.

 

“Dani said I was a child in his last interview. I don’t like him anymore,” which is a damn lie, and they both know it. It’s impossible not to like Dani, even if he’d spent ten minutes laughing at Neymar on the phone.

 

“He said that this morning too,” Leo nods. “He’s thinking on investing in a child leash, says it’ll keep you out of trouble.”

 

“Shouldn’t you be buying that for Geri?” Neymar says. He knows he’s an occasional menace, but he’s not on Pique’s level.

 

“They don’t make them in Geri’s size,” Leo says, shrugs. “Cesc and I checked.”

 

Neymar very carefully doesn’t react to the mention of their former teammate. It’s a sensitive subject sometimes, causes Leo’s face to go all pensive and unreadable, in contrast to Geri, who starts wreaking even more havoc than usual.

 

“It wouldn’t work anyway,” he says instead. “You’d just get dragged behind him. Like people with those big dogs.”

 

Leo laughs, but then turns his attention to the TV and Neymar focuses on the applesauce. Normally, Neymar likes to talk while he eats, but today he’s just too tired and sick to be bothered by the quiet.

 

He lays the empty bowl carefully on the coffee table, and then eyes the empty space on the couch. His head hurts.

 

Leo is sitting on the far end, but the couch isn’t that big and Neymar wants to lie down. He probably could ask Leo to move, but the thought doesn’t even occur to him. Instead he takes his pillow, fluffs it and places it neatly so it’s resting partially on Leo’s thigh. Then he flops down with a satisfied sound and covers himself with the blanket.

 

There’s this brief voice of doubt in his mind, when his pillow moves, but then Leo’s hand comes down to rest on his neck, heavy and comforting, and it quiets.

 

Leo’s thumb moves up to stroke his neck, just below the hairline and Neymar drifts to sleep with a smile on his face.

 

He wakes up a few hours later, mouth like cotton. Leo is gone and Neymar feels a momentary hot flush of embarrassment for not treating him as a guest should be treated. Still, there’s another pillow wedged under his, like Leo did his best to not wake him up when he was leaving. He doesn’t remember actually dreaming of anything, but he hides a smile at the memory of Leo’s fingers running through his hair.

 

His phone buzzes on the coffee table and he almost rolls of the couch trying to reach it. “Were you cured by Messi’s magic touch?” a text from Rafaella.

 

“How did mom react when he came in?” he writes back, instead of answering.

 

“She broke a jar,” she answers and he laughs to himself.

 

He sits up on the couch, rolls his shoulders and stretches his back. His headache is gone. He might be imagining it, but his head feels less swollen too. Maybe Rafaella had a point with the Messi magic touch.

 

Or maybe it was just the applesauce.

 


	35. Pierreus - Moving in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco moves in, but forgets to consult Auba on the matter. Not that he minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joey thought I could write a fic involving Auba on the toilet. So I did.

 

Maybe inviting Marco to live with him while he was searching for a new apartment wasn’t that good of an idea, but it sounded alright at the time. They’d roomed together for a while and that was fine, Auba was already used to Marco’s snoring, what else could be worse?

 

Well, for starters, Marco had no concept of personal space. Auba’s house was huge, they had all this space to spread out, but Marco still chose the couch Auba was sitting on. Or he’d come up in the kitchen and throw his arms around Auba’s middle and then think it was funny to crab shuffle behind him for the rest of his morning routine. 

 

The last straw was the toilet.

 

Auba had simple rules about bathroom usage; if it was open it was free game and if it was shut it was off limits. Easiest thing on the planet, no need for locks. Well, not for Marco apparently.

 

Auba was minding his own business, sitting on the toilet, when Marco waltzed in and started brushing his teeth. He ignored his quizzical look, finished brushing and patted Auba on the head when he walked past, saying “You’ve been in here for a while buddy, do you need some of  indigestion pills?”

 

Auba hated him.

 

The next day he was innocently taking a shower, when he saw a shadow on the other end of the shower curtain, screamed like a little kid, slipped and almost brained himself on the bathtub. 

 

The worst thing was that Marco was so great about it, apologizing while wrapping Auba in a fluffy towel and helping him out, and Auba couldn’t really be mad . Marco kept holding ice to where the bruise was forming and stroking his hair and promising he’ll never come into the bathroom without announcing himself and it was so endearing that Auba kind of forgot to tell him he shouldn’t come into the bathroom at all.

 

So inviting Marco to his apartment wasn’t really the best idea because Auba still had unresolved feelings for his best friend but now he also had indigestion on top of it. But then again, it also meant then when they were watching TV in the evening, Auba could pretend to fall asleep and lay his head on Marco’s shoulder, and sometimes Marco would stroke his hair, and really, it was a good trade off.

 

 


	36. DeleDier: video phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 videos of Dele that Eric puts on social media and one he keeps for himself

**1.**

 

“Alright, go!”

 

“Are you recording?”

 

“Yeah, go on, take the jump!”

 

“...uh.”

 

“Oh, come on, Tom Daley jumps from twice that height.”

 

“He’s a professional diver!”

 

“And you’re a professional football player, some would argue that’s the same thing.”

 

“Hey, I never dive!”

 

“Yeah, I can see that. You’re really committing. Won’t even dive into the pool.”

 

“I’m going, okay!”

 

“...”

 

“DELE, YOU MUPPET!”

 

“WHAT?”

 

“YOU SPLASHED ME!”

 

* * *

 

**2.**

 

“Ow!”

 

“Oh boy, the great Dele Alli, can’t even cut a red pepper without cutting his finger off.”

 

“Fuck you, Dier, you could be helping. What the...are you recording this?!”

 

“Yeah, I wanted to prove H wrong about us not being proper adults. Hate to say it, but you’re proving his point.”

 

“Oh yeah? You know what, I think it’s just been decided who’s paying for takeout today.”

 

“But H...”

 

“Get the menu, Dyet. I’m ordering lobster.”

 

* * *

 

**3.**

 

“Okay, pose, I’m putting this on snapchat.”

 

“Oh good, maybe it’ll finally give those other guys a sense of style.”

 

“Style...sure, if that’s what we’re calling it.”

 

“What, you don’t like this shirt?”

 

“It’s very...transparent.”

 

“That was the point. Let me turn around for you, these pants are a miracle.”

 

“...”

 

“Might want to put that phone down, Dyet.”

 

* * *

 

**4.**

 

“And here we have the great Dele Alli in his natural habitat, engaging in his morning joust with the coffee machine. Looking fresh as a daisy there, Del-boy.”

 

“Fuck off. How are you so energetic, it’s 6 in the morning!”

 

“Because I already had coffee, which if you squint to your left, you might notice is also in a mug, waiting for you.”

 

* * *

 

**5.**

 

“This is the cutest thing I’ve seen all week.”

 

“Put the phone down, Dier, and come pet this puppy!”

 

* * *

 

 

**~~6.~~ The one he wouldn’t put on social media**

 

“Are you filming right now?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Why?”

 

“...you look really cute right now.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Really really cute.”

 

“Dier, you sap.”

 

“I’m not!”

 

“C’mere. And take off your pants.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. And keep the camera on.”

 

“...Dele, you kinky little-” 

 

“Move, before I change my mind.”

 

“Yessir.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://neyvenger.tumblr.com/)


End file.
